History Repeats Itself
by Author of Ice and Fire
Summary: "The district people never learn, do they? But they will. I'll MAKE them learn. We need to beat them into submission the way our great ancestors would with their prisoners. An eye for an eye, a death for a death, a fight for a fight or the world will fall into chaos again. They want violence? I'll give them violence. I'll give them the Hunger Games." The story of the 1st Games.
1. The Beginning

**Octavian August, Mayor of District 2**

It's been a long time since I've ridden a train.

My fingers clench tightly around the pages of my book, knuckles turning white from tension. I don't want to say this scares me, but I still remember the horror stories from the war, when 6 rerouted all trains through their hellhole of a district before we could do anything about it.

So many of those trains carried Capitol children, shipped off to weather out the war in a safer part of the country.

So many dead.

"Your leg's doing that thing again." Nero scowls, taking the book from my lap and placing it on his own non-bouncing one. "Stop. I can't read."

"Now I can't either." Marius frowns at him from my other side, even going so far as to stick out his tongue. Nero gives him the finger in answer.

Twenty-plus years they've lived, and five of those were spent enduring one of the harshest wars in history. Yet still my siblings are as immature as ever.

I want to scold them. But I also want to thank them. _Thank you for being the light when so many only see the darkness._

"I thought the youngest always got what he wanted."

"You're twenty-five, asshole, suck it up."

"Don't swear at your brother." I can't stop myself from reprimanding Nero. Situations like this I've lived through so many times, all my reactions are unconscious at this point.

"Whatever." Nero rolls his eyes. "He should have brought his own book."

"And you? Remember, that's mine."

"Not like you can read it when you're jiggling your leg like that. Seriously, stop. It's giving me a headache."

I try to, for all our sakes. No one needs to be reminded of my nervous habits, which can lead to nervous fits, which can lead to nervous breakdowns, which can—

_No._

"Mayor August."

An attendant appears in the doorway of our compartment, bowing swiftly in my direction before turning to my brothers. "Mr. August. Mr. August. We've just reached Capitol borders now. We're stopping for fuel before we continue into the heart of the city."

"For God's sake, we're not there already?" Marius groans as the attendant leaves. "I'm _bored._"

"Should've brought a book, asshole."

"_You _should have brought a book, you—"

I cough, my signature gesture for "stop being idiots and listen up". Funny enough, they both do. Perhaps they do still hold some shreds of respect for me, despite all they've seen me do, the low points they've seen me hit. They still value me as a leader, both their mayor and older brother.

Or perhaps they're listening out of sympathy, because they're worried what I might do otherwise. That thought is . . . less appealing.

"Compose yourselves, please." This command is lessened in power slightly due to my leg still shaking. I make a conscious effort to hold it steady as I continue, "Remember, we are about to meet with the president of Panem."

"Don't give her fancy titles." This time it's Nero sticking out his tongue in disgust. "She'll always be bratty old Julia, mother's _dearest _Julia, spoiled-as-they-come-with-a-giant-stick-up-her-ass Ju—"

"_Ahem._" I try to inject more force into this cough. "_President_ of Panem. And your sister. Who you shouldn't swear at."

"Bite me."

Well, his response could have been worse. I won't comment on it.

What _will _she be like, though? We haven't met face to face since . . . has it been twenty years? Time sure does fly.

That's not to say we haven't _seen_ her since then, of course. Her face has been all over Panem for a while now. Young Capitol upstart climbing the political ladder faster than acceptable, scandal alert when the tabloids learned said upstart has family in the districts, of all places. And look, her twin brother is in the political game as well. Small world.

Funny, Julia and I had never seemed that similar growing up. Yet here I am, running 2. And here she is, running the world.

And here she is, walking into our compartment.

All three of us jerk out of our seats as the new arrival enters, flanked by three discreetly-dressed bodyguards. They fade into the background though, grey suits and black glasses easily overlooked in favour of the rainbow they guard.

I would have never recognised her, had I not seen her since Mom and Dad split. Her dark hair is a shocking shade of orange now, cascading down in a fiery shower. Her face seems thinner, and at first I think it's the stress of war, but no, she's had some work done. Finer cheeks, higher cheekbones, and her nose looks smaller as well. I'd be surprised if I hadn't seen her on TV only a few days ago. She's really gotten into the Capitol fashions.

For an instant, we're all shell-shocked. Julia stares over red-tinted glasses, as though she doesn't recognise a single one of her brothers. Nero and Marius, meanwhile, are gawking at her clothes, a glaring ensemble of yellows, oranges and reds with so many ruffles and poufs she looks like she's drowning in the material. It's a ridiculous getup, one I'd scold anyone else for wearing, but somehow, she pulls it off, and worse, she's got _me_ worrying about _my_ clothes. Suddenly I feel terribly underdressed in a simple, dark suit.

Nero's opening his mouth, and for fear of whatever scathing comment might emerge, I quickly step forward to speak first. "Miss President," I say evenly, inclining my head. "We weren't expecting you."

This is it. This is when we find out exactly how much she's changed.

"Please, 'Tavian, it's Julia." She strides over, wraps me in a hug containing far too much fabric, and promptly collapses onto the couch we'd previously occupied. "I swear, if I have to hear 'Miss President' one more time, I'll explode."

"Power getting to your head so soon?" There's Nero, recovering from his surprise quicker than anyone wants. "Didn't think your ego had an expanding limit, Julia, _dear_."

I'm going to hit him. All right, no I'm not, but I'm going to lecture him _so hard_ when we get back to 2.

Julia flicks her glasses down her nose, shooting a condescending stare up at her younger brother. "Neer. As douchey as ever."

"Jules, as slutty as ever. With all those stupid ruffles, you'd think they could spare the material to make sure your tits aren't spilling out of—"

"Language," I say before I can stop myself. My cheeks are red, partly from Nero's horridly inappropriate words and partly from my own. My sister or no, I'm not sure I should be telling off the president of Panem for swearing.

But Julia smiles up at me, a surprisingly genuine smile. "The perpetual big brother. You don't know how much I've missed you."

_Really?_ "I, ah, I feel the same way."

"And Marius! You're so tall, my God, I'd never have recognised you! Please, boys, come sit."

She taps the spot next to her, currently occupied by my book Nero hastily discarded. Julia frowns, picking it up to take a closer look.

"_Ancient Rome and Its Fearless Leaders_?"

"Bit of light reading," I say quickly. "Just to pass the time. And brush up on some history."

"You never stop, do you?" She laughs and sets the book on a nearby end table. Not carelessly, but disregarding all the same.

_Don't you understand? History is important. Ancient history is the most important. Why was Panem named Panem, why does the Capitol and its strongest ally bear so much influence from ancient Rome? It's connected, it's all connected._

"Come. Relax," she says, patting the couch again. After a moment's hesitance, I take the spot to her left, Marius sitting to her right. Nero remains standing. "And please, let me know if your fearless Roman leaders have any tips for me. Any help would be greatly appreciated."

"What?" Nero's expression is mock-shock. "The star sibling, asking for help from her lowly brothers? Impossible!"

"Hey, I never valued myself over you three, all right? Mom did. Sue me." Julia's hard look softens as she turns back to me. "Speaking of parents, how's Dad?"

The question catches me off-guard. She cares? "Um, dead. Sorry."

Her expression turns sympathetic. "No, I'm sorry. The war?"

"Fell down a mine shaft drunk and broke his neck," Nero snaps from the wall he's lounging against. "That was, oh, a year after we moved to Two?"

"What? Oh, guys, I'm so—"

"Yeah, I'd say the split hit him harder than Mom, huh? 'Course it didn't help when she claimed the whole goddamn Capitol as her territory."

"Hey, don't blame that on her," Julia snaps. "He wanted to get away as much as she did, you know that."

"Yeah, well, he got pretty far, didn't he? Not far enough though—think they got a room together in hell?"

"Nero, that's enough," I hiss. Beside me, Julia's broken eye contact and is looking down at her lap, eyes glistening behind her glasses.

"What? We laugh about Dad's death."

_Laugh _is not the first word I'd use, but I don't call him on it. I know better than anyone how he deals with tragedy. "Still, Mom just, you know . . ."

I peter out, turning my attention back to Julia. My arm's sliding around her shoulder before I can think; the act of comfort is just so natural. "I'm really sorry. We all heard. Really, really awful."

"Which part?" Julia gives a small laugh that's 0% humour and 100% defense against tears. "A district citizen somehow getting to the Capitol? My Peacekeepers missing the obvious assassin on the roof? The man shooting Mom when his real target should have been me?"

"Look," I jump in quickly. "It's not your fault, if that's what you're—"

"Of course it's not my fault! It's those damn district _scum_. Sorry," she adds at the end of her outburst. "No offense."

"None taken," Marius pipes up beside her. "I mean, we were allies and all."

"Right. And thank you for that," she adds, speaking mostly to me. "We needed you, and you didn't abandon us. You even, ah, kind of secured my position." She laughs. "Guess people figured if I had brothers in the districts, I could stop us all from fighting."

Nero snorts. "And look how royally you screwed up."

I tense for another argument, but scarily out-of-character, Julia just sighs. "Yeah. Yeah, I did."

Even Nero doesn't know what to say to that, especially when she buries her face in her hands. "It's all shit," she mutters into her palms. "I thought it'd be over when we won, but it's all _still_ shit. Still with the riots, still with the violence, still with the threats. And in my own city too! God, I can't even meet my brothers normally for a simple chat. Seriously, I had to order four different trains to leave from Two, make sure no one knew which one you were on, leak the information we were meeting in my house then—"

"Hey, it's okay," I say, more for my benefit than hers. That anxious rambling sounds awfully familiar to how I get when I'm nervous, and I don't need that reminder hanging over my head right now. "We're here now, and that's all that matters."

That gets a small smile from her, at least. "Yeah, thanks for that."

"No problem. So what did you want to talk about? The districts?"

"Ugh, anything but, please. I've already got thousands of angry Capitolites on my back. 'Vengeance, we want vengeance!' What more am I supposed to do? We already execute so many district citizens they've made a TV channel specifically for it."

"_Justice is Served_," Nero murmurs. "We know." It's not uncommon for our TV to be tuned in. Sick? Probably. But that never stops the thrill of power and relief I get when I watch a Peacekeeper put a bullet through someone's head, even if it's a citizen of 2. All the rebels have to go. Until then, I won't be safe. My darling Clodia won't be safe. My little Agrippa won't be safe. My dad won't be—

No—Dad's dead. Clodia and Agrippa are dead. Dad died nineteen years ago. Clodia and Agrippa, they were shot a month after the war ended. _After_. Not unlike Julia's situation with Mom: some rebels wanting to take their anger out on me, instead finding easier targets in my pregnant wife and five-year-old daughter.

They haven't learned. History is doomed to repeat itself unless we learn from our mistakes, but they _won't _learn. Ever. Not by themselves, not when Julia lets the rebels off with what little punishment they're facing right now. We need a display of power, like our ancient Roman ancestors used so long ago. And I have it, I _have _it. A way to satisfy the need for vengeance from the Capitol, a way to punish the rebels further, a way for them all to feel my _pain_—

"'Tavian. Stop. Jiggling. Your. Leg."

I glance up at Nero, then look down at my leg. Sure enough, it's bouncing rapidly to the beat of my pounding heart. Everyone's staring at me, especially Julia, who's also trying to pry my arm off her shoulders. My grip is so tight my fingernails are tearing the material of her dress.

"Sorry." Without looking any of them in the eye, I remove my hand from Julia and stop my knee from bouncing. _Get a grip. _Julia just lost Mom, Marius watched dozens of his friends and co-workers get slaughtered, and Nero's boyfriend was captured and killed by rebels. I'm not the only one who's lost people I care about. It was just . . . it was just supposed to stop after the war.

_It has now. It's been five months since Clodia and Agrippa . . . it's been six months since the war ended. Sure, there've been fights, but no one you know has died. Maybe you're being a bit hasty. Maybe we should avoid more violence._

All at once, my cheeks flush with the heat of shame. I think back to my study at home, desk drawers filled with charts and notebooks and diagrams detailing the districts' punishment. Could I be overreacting? Yes, yes, perhaps I am. Will more violence really help?

_Clodia. Agrippa. Mom._

_But no one else has died. The worst is over._

The loud clap startles me from my thoughts. "Well," says Marius, rubbing his hands together as he hops to his feet. "You know what this little reunion needs? Drinks. Am I right?"

He winks at Julia, who giggles. "Oh my God, yes. Please."

"Neer?"

"Do you even have to ask?"

"'Tavian?"

"Sure." _And thank you. Thank you for always picking up my slack, for smiling when I can't._

He chuckles, waves, and heads off towards the bar car. Smart of him not to just call an attendant. No need to advertise how drunk a decorated army captain, the head of 2's public relations, the mayor of said district, and the president of Panem are going to get tonight.

Though Julia's bodyguards are still present, standing back against the compartment wall. I'd nearly forgotten they were here.

"Must be hard," I say to her. "You know, having to be escorted everywhere."

"You don't?"

"Not now, not really. Two's been pretty quiet."

Nero raises an eyebrow but doesn't say anything. He knows the real reason I don't want to be guarded at all times is because I can't stand it. Spending the rest of my life with these faceless men and women is like a slap in the face, a constant reminder that perhaps, if I'd been more normal, I could've been surrounded by my family instead of my workers.

_But you still have a family, _the small voice inside me argues. _You have Marius and Nero and Julia, who walked back into our lives better than anyone was expecting. You have them, and that's never going to change._

The explosion sends us all flying.

A loud blast, a scream from Julia, a gasp from Nero, a grinding _screech_ as the train derails. But I can make no sound, only watch as the world dissolves into chaos. Julia's guards are struggling to get to her, but our car is moving too violently, and is it tipping now? Nero shouts something, but I don't know what's going on. Fear has seized me, trapping my terrified conscious inside a body that will not move and a mind that cannot think save one ever-repeating thought.

_Not again._

_Not again._

_Not again._

_The explosion was close to Marius._

_Too close._

I'm unaware what happens after that. I think I stay awake for a little while longer, but what I do, I cannot say. In any case, I soon find myself struggling out of the darkness and pain of unconsciousness.

Did I faint? No, the back of my head is aching and sore. I was hit by something. Am I okay?

It takes all my remaining strength to crack one eye open and take in the scene around me. I do so slowly, dumbly, like I don't fully comprehend what's just happened.

We're still in the train car, but everything's wrong. The furniture, all us people, we're on the wall. _All us people . . . Julia! Nero! _My pounding head struggles to give meaning to these names, to voice my thoughts and cry out for my siblings, but I find myself unable to. It's like I'm watching them from behind a TV: able to see them, but helpless to do anything.

A pile of grey nearby is starting to move—the bodyguards, rising and helping a protected Julia beneath them to her feet. "Miss President, ambulances are on the way. Are you all right?"

"No, I'm not all right! I thought we'd been careful, I'd thought we'd avoid this, I . . . Oh God, my brothers, where are my brothers?"

"Here," comes a groaning voice from beneath the overturned sofa we'd been sitting on so casually moments ago. "Now, if you could be so kind—"

The bodyguards don't have to be told twice. With a powerful heave, they lift the sofa up, and Nero slides out, clambering unsteadily to his feet. He's bleeding from the forehead, with a nasty gash on his shoulder.

"Nero, you're hurt!"

"Forget me, where's 'Tavian? And Marius? We have to get to him right now, he was closer to the explosion and—"

"No. No, you aren't saying—"

"I'm not saying anything, Julia, but we need to get to him."

"Oh God . . ."

Julia sinks to the floor, out of site, but I can still see Nero through my one open eye. His mouth is pressed in a thin line, his jaw clenched, his eyes hard and impossible to read. But I know that look. It's the same one he wore when he heard of Aetius's capture. Everyone assured him it would be all right, they'd get back his boyfriend and the whole squadron taken with him, but Nero knew. He's not one to fool himself like others. He doesn't get his hopes up if he doesn't believe the cause merits such optimism.

I've never known him to be wrong.

My one good eye begins to burn. I shut it, feeling the wetness growing in its corner. _Marius. Marius the ever-pleasant. Marius the smiler. Marius the supportive younger brother. Marius._

_And Clodia and Agrippa and Mom. And countless others._

Fingers tense and my grip tightens; only then do I realise I'm holding something. Hard surface, more ragged edges within—my book. Somehow, I grabbed my book in all the chaos. Not my brother, not my sister: my book.

But I did it for them. For _all_ of us. My book tells of empires that fell because the people could not be controlled. We need to _learn _from history. The rebels can't get away with this. I won't let them. I won't let them!

_Aetius. Mom. Agrippa. Clodia._

_Marius._

They need to be taught. No, they need to be _punished. _I knew it, I always knew it, but I doubted, and now I've lost another. No more. _They _can do all the losing from here on out. They can watch their people suffer. I've had enough.

"That curtain is shaking."

"It's 'Tavian! 'Tavian, you all right?"

I'll make them _pay._

* * *

><p><strong><em>Hi all! First time SYOT writer here with the prologue for History Repeats Itself. Yes, this is a SYOT, so please, submit a tribute! Submit two! Submit three! The rules, along with the form and more information on the current status of the districts, are on my profile, so go check it out!<em>**

**_How did you like the prologue? Any and all feedback is great, especially constructive criticism. I like to get better at what I do, and this is my first story and SYOT, so your comments are much appreciated! Liked it, hated it, got any tips on how to improve? Please let me know!_**

**_Well, that's all for now. We'll be seeing more of the August siblings soon - I plan to post at least one other prologue piece, probably more, to pass the time while I wait for tributes. Thank you all for reading and hope to see you submit!_**


	2. The Middle

**Julia August, President of Panem**

The funeral is held in 2.

At first, I was surprised the boys wanted that. I still remember that day so many years ago when they were practically in tears over the idea of leaving for the "dirty districts". They'd begged Dad to stay in the Capitol, pleaded with Mom to take them instead. But Dad was dead-set on leaving, and Mom wanted nothing to do with them, so off they went, no matter how mad or sad they were. For years after, I'd picture them living horrible, dreary lives, never once having a moment of happiness.

I was wrong. They'd played, they'd laughed, they'd found love. And they'd made friends—Marius most of all. I always knew he'd grow up to be the popular type. Everyone had loved him when he was little.

So Nero flat-out refused when I offered to take Marius back to his home. _Here _is home now, he'd said, where all his loved ones are present. And so we lay him to rest in a field of flowers filled with his fallen friends.

The service ends, and many people begin to trickle away, but I can't tear my eyes from the tombstone.

_Marius Trajan August. Brother to three. Friend to all._

The worst part are the dates beneath. It's like a smack in the face, seeing how short his life was. _Twenty-five. And not the youngest here by far. _The plot next to him is occupied by Marius's childhood friend, who lost his life at barely twenty, when the war first began. _Why, why do we always kill the young? Is that the only way the old will learn?_

Soon the only people left by the grave are myself, Nero, Octavian, and my discreetly dressed bodyguards. I didn't want them along, but my advisors insisted, only after trying to dissuade me completely from coming.

"_Please, Miss President, it's too dangerous!"_

"_Two may have fought on our side, but it's still a district."_

"_What if the rebels attack?"_

Let them come. I've had enough of hiding and letting rebel bastards dictate my life. Let's all stop sneaking around and _fight._

"We can't let this continue." I clench my fists, nails digging into my palms as my eyes fill with tears of pain and sorrow and _anger_. "_I _can't let this continue. I have to do something."

"You can't." Nero's tone is neither mocking nor scathing, which, oddly enough, only saddens me further.

The sigh he gives as he steps up to my side is one of a man expelling his last kernel of hope for humanity. "These people, they don't fear death," Nero says quietly, his eyes focused on the gravestone in front of us. "That's why they can't be stopped. A man who doesn't fear death can never be beaten into submission."

"That's not true."

I watch Nero's eyes widen, feeling mine do the same as we both look to our left in surprise. Those are the first words Octavian has spoken since the incident.

My twin is standing with his back to us, staring up at a flowering tree as if in a trance. He was like that for the whole funeral, but neither Nero nor I protested. I think Octavian knows if he looks at Marius's grave, he'll break down.

"Men can always be beaten," he continues, outstretching his hand to catch a falling flower. "If they don't fear death, you just have to give them something scarier."

Is it the cool breeze making me shiver, or my brother's words? I'm not sure, but I have half a mind to tell him to stop talking because he's freaking me out.

The other half of my mind is urging him to continue.

"'Tavian," Nero says slowly. "What are you talking about?"

"I have a plan. A plan, a plan for justice. But I-I hesitated. I wasn't sure, wasn't 100% sure it was a good plan. Was more violence really necessary?"

He gasps suddenly, his fists clenching and unclenching. The crushed flower slips from his palm and falls to the ground.

"_They_ thought it was. And they . . . they—"

Nero takes a step forward as Octavian's legs buckle, but my twin steadies himself before he falls, wrapping his hands around a low hanging branch like it's his only lifeline.

"Fine," he murmurs, and suddenly the branch isn't a lifeline, it's a throat his tensed hands are slowly squeezing the air from. "_Fine. _They want violence, they can have it. Only we'll make the rules now. We'll decide who lives and who dies, who wins and who loses. We'll be in charge of the game, and they can be the pawns in it."

Before Nero or I can ask what he means, he's stumbling away from the tree and up the graveyard path. "Come on!" he shouts back to us. "I need to show you!"

I glance at Nero, but he's already taking off after his brother, so I guess that makes my decision for me. As fast as I can in heels and a tight skirt, I take off after my family. Pounding footsteps behind me indicate my guards are doing the same.

Octavian, even in his half-crazed state, is fast, but I manage to catch up to Nero as we run through the district. Thank God I thought to dye my hair and wear this netted, black mourner's veil; what would people think if they saw the president of Panem racing through the streets like a child?

"Where is he going?" I ask between breaths, pulling up to Nero's side.

"His office . . . I think."

"And does he normally act like this?" Octavian's startling behaviour isn't exactly what I remember from my ever responsible, always serious twin.

Nero doesn't respond, except to glare at me out of the corner of his eye. Oh, great, now he's mad. Does he have _any _other mood?

I'm about to spit some sort of insult, but then I realise the reason he's angry is probably because he's just as surprised as I am, and a little worried for our big brother.

Marius's graveyard is only a few blocks away from 2's main Justice Building, which comes into view once we round another corner. Looks like Nero was right; Octavian is heading straight there, his black coat flapping wildly, his shoes covered in dust and mud. Passersby give him odd glances as he races past. After all, I may be in disguise, but he's still easily recognisable as the mayor of 2.

"He's going to ruin his reputation," I mutter as we chase him up to the Justice Building steps.

"I doubt he's concerned with that right now," Nero retorts.

"In here!" Octavian waves his arms wildly at the top of the steps to the Justice Building. "Quickly!"

"'Tavian, wait—"

But before I can ask what the hell he's doing, he flings the door open and disappears inside. Nero makes to follow him, but I put a hand on his shoulder before he can.

"What?" he snaps, shaking me off immediately.

"Nero, what's going on?"

"He wants to show us something."

Thank you, Captain Obvious. "But _why_? Why is he acting like this? Ever since the accident . . ."

No—no, even before the accident. When Nero mentioned _Justice is Served_, the channel broadcasting rebels' deaths, Octavian's eyes got all wide, his leg started bouncing anxiously, and his grip on my shoulder tightened to the point where it hurt. The brother I knew would never hurt any of his siblings, even unknowingly. He was always so careful with us.

"Nero . . ." I bite my lip, trying to find a way to voice my concerns for the brother I once looked up to so much. "What's wrong with him?"

_Bam!_

I squeak and jump back in shock. My bodyguards jump into action like they'd been expecting this. Two of them immediately grab Nero's arms, dragging him away from me before he can do anything else.

It takes me a second to realise what happened. He threw a punch, not at me, but the Justice Building wall beside me. Nero never misses, so it obviously wasn't his intent to hit me, but the look on his face tells me he'd have been just as happy with that.

"Damn it, Jules," he snarls, trying to wrench his arms out of the guards' grips. "Tell these—argh, _assholes_ to let me go."

"No."

"What?"

"No way." I cross my arms, and give him a glare angry enough to match his own. "You almost hit the president of Panem. What the hell, man?"

"You insulted my brother!"

"_Our _brother. And I did not! I just asked—"

"You have no right, _no right_, to assume something's wrong with him. You're talking about him like he's nuts!"

"Well, to be fair—"

"No. You don't get an opinion. You know nothing, all right? _Nothing_."

Our little spat is attracting the eye of more than one nosy passerby. This won't be good for the press, especially if someone recognises me.

"We should continue this in private," I say, opening the Justice Building door. "Come on."

Nero glowers at me, but shakes off the grip of my guards and stalks inside all the same. They make to follow, but I stop them with a hand. "It would be better if you watch the outside of the house."

"But, Miss President—"

"Please. We have . . . personal family matters to attend to."

They hesitate, but who are they to argue with the president? With reluctant nods, they turn their eyes to the street as I enter the building and shut the door quietly behind me.

Nero is already down the hall, presumably following after Octavian. As much as I want to fling my shoe at his unsuspecting head, _one _of us needs to be mature, and seeing as he doesn't have the ability, that burden falls to me.

"Neer, wait." There's nothing I want to say less than these next words, but I grit my teeth and force myself to anyways. "I'm _sorry_, okay? But I don't get—"

"That's exactly it. You don't get it, you don't get anything because you. Weren't. There."

"Oh, for goodness sake. This is just you resenting me again for being Mom's favourite, isn't it?"

"The mere fact that you're suggesting that shows what a stuck-up, egotistical—"

"Then enlighten me, oh Great Guardian of Knowledge. What exactly don't I get?"

I figured he'd just snap at me again, but he actually stops walking away and _sighs_, of all things. Not his typical mad sigh either, which sets me on edge more than the possibility of him hitting me again. Suddenly, I realise as annoying as he is, I prefer angry Nero over anything else. Nero in whatever-the-hell-kind-of-mood-this-is makes me uncomfortably somber.

"Surprised you didn't put the pieces together yet. Weren't you supposed to be the smart one?" His words are bitter, but they carry none of their typical malice. "I told you Dad died a year after we moved here."

"So?"

"So, Marius was six. I was eight. Octavian was twelve. We had no relatives here, no close friends either, and it wasn't like Dad left us with much."

"Oh . . ."

This is . . . actually the first time I've ever really thought about them being on their own at that age. And now I feel awful. I guess I just assumed it didn't matter; I mean, they've clearly turned out all right, so whatever happened back then couldn't have been too bad.

"Yeah, and it wasn't like Two was super buddy-buddy with the Capitol back then either. So what were three young Capitol boys to do?"

Nero turns to face me, his eyes blazing angrily—is it odd I'm relieved when he starts to speak with more fury? "Octavian kept us in school. He kept us fed. He kept us _alive_. Do you know how hard it must have been? Twelve-year-old Capitol boys aren't exactly ideal for the mines of Two. He had to get . . . creative. He worked so hard, exhausted himself, starved himself so we could eat. So bottom line, _Miss President, _don't you _ever_ imply there's something wrong with my brother. He saved our lives. If you'd gone with us instead of him, we'd all be dead."

_Well, no need to tag on that insult. _But the thought is weak in my head and doesn't make it to my lips. I'd never imagined . . . of course I'd never imagined. To be honest, I'd never given much thought to the lives of my brothers at all, after they'd moved. Ridiculous as it may be, _I _was angry with _them_. They'd always had a special bond I'd never share because I was a sister, not a brother, and then they abandoned me. Not by choice, but I'd felt betrayed all the same.

Now I feel bad for ever hating them.

"I'm sorry," I whisper. It sounds pathetic, but it's the only response I can get out.

And maybe Nero understands I mean so much more than I say, because he doesn't mock my words—just nods, accepting my subpar apology.

A loud crash sounds from upstairs, and, right, we're supposed to be following Octavian. I let Nero lead the way down the hall and up a flight of stairs to another set of double doors, beyond which I'm assuming Octavian's office lies.

It's a mess when we enter. The desk has been completely butchered, drawers yanked out and spilling papers all across the carpet. The bookshelf is likewise gutted, its contents scattered about with covers open, pages torn. In fact, the only thing untouched in the room is the large, flat-screen TV hanging on the wall across from us. That's where Octavian is, kneeling before it and fiddling madly with a remote in his hands.

"'Tavian," Nero says slowly. "What is all this?"

Our brother cranes his neck to see us, batting his dark hair away from his eyes. "My plan," he says, one second completely confident, the next, sheepish and embarrassed. "It's, um, just a little thing I've been working on."

Little thing my ass. These handwritten pages of his could fill a library. I pick up the one closest to my foot and scan its contents. "Chariots? Is this more of your Roman stuff?"

"It's based on that. Sort of. Started out like that, but I ran simulations on my computer, whittled away unnecessary rules, made calculations to find out exactly what would make my game the strongest, the most terrifying, the, um, the best punishment."

"Your 'game'?"

"That's what I've been calling it. I don't really have a title yet. But I have everything else."

"Like what?" Nero asks, his eyes roving over all the pages. "'Tavian, what _is_ this?"

"My plan. To make sure the districts never hurt us again."

"And your plan would be?" I hold out my hands, waiting for further explanation.

Octavian rubs the back of his neck. "Right. Um, well, it's complicated. Really complicated. Like I said, I ran so many simulations and calculations and—"

"Give us the basics," Nero says, cutting his ramblings off in their tracks.

"Basics. Right. So, basically, it boils down to, um . . ." He peters out, fidgeting nervously with his hands. I can tell if he was sitting down, his leg would be bouncing a mile a minute. It's obvious he's incredibly excited about this, but he's worried about our reactions. Which makes me worry for what there is to react _to_.

"So . . . okay, it's still rough, but it goes like this. You take two kids from each district, a boy and a girl, twelve to eighteen years old. And you do a bunch of stuff with them beforehand, train them and watch them and I made this little chariot parade thing and interviews and stuff. And then you put them in an arena."

Maybe it's just me, but I'm not following. "And then?" I ask.

Octavian bites his lip, and I watch the last little bit of confidence drain from his face. He's not going to tell us.

But he doesn't have to.

"You get them to kill each other," Nero murmurs. He's picked up another one of Octavian's pages and is staring at it like it holds all the secrets of the universe.

"Wait, you _what_?" Maybe I've misheard something because I'm so, so lost.

"You get them to kill each other. That's what you meant, right?" Nero adds, turning the page so Octavian and I can see. It was torn out of some other book, and though my twin's handwritten scrawl covers much of the paper, I can still see the original drawing printed onto the page. Two nearly-naked men going at it, one with a sword, the other with a net and trident.

"Gladiatorial combat," Nero says, eyes now focused on Octavian. "That's what you mean."

Our brother looks at his feet, nervously nudging a book with his shoe. "Did you know," he begins quietly. "That the gladiator games were originally a way to honour the dead? They were known as _munera_, public works provided for the benefit of the Roman people. It was a gift for those who had passed."

"Like the people in the war," I say before I can stop myself. Octavian glances up at me. "You want to honour them? Marius, Mom, everyone who died because of the rebellion?"

"And you want to make the rebels fear us," Nero continues. "That's why you're using kids. Adults can take their own pain, but hurt their children . . . what's worse than that?"

"Nothing," Octavian whispers. I remember with a start a long-forgotten news announcement: mayor from 2 has a close call as rebel assassin's bullets find his pregnant wife and five-year-old daughter instead.

One would think such a thought would sadden me, but it doesn't—it makes me _mad_. I can feel the anger radiating off of Nero as well, and I think back to what he just told me, about Octavian keeping Nero and Marius alive. He must have dropped out of school to do it, yet still he managed to become the mayor, overcoming every challenge thrown his way. But the world wouldn't stop making him suffer.

And what about me? I was elected during the war to end it, and damn it, I _did_, but I still lost Mom and so many good friends. And then Marius . . .

When will it end? When will the fighting stop? When will my brothers and I finally be safe to be happy?

When we teach the rebels not to mess with the Capitol, that's when.

"'Tavian." I walk towards him, paper clenched tightly in my hand. He looks surprised as I hand it over to him. "Please, tell us more about your game."

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><p><em><strong>Back with another prologue, the second of three. Thank you to every who has submitted so far, and please, everyone keep it up! I love seeing all of your tributes!<strong>_


	3. The End for the Districts

_**One last prologue, sorry for the wait. I've got almost all the tributes I need, so this SYOT will be closing on Saturday, the end of January, which was my predicted deadline. It's not too late if you'd still like to submit though.**_

_**One thing about this chapter, it gets a bit dark. Well, yes, they've all been dark, but this one more so than the others. Warning for swearing (f-bombs be dropping in this chapter), brief descriptions of gore and implied self-harm/attempted suicide. Really, really implied, like you have to squint to see it, but I figured a warning was best just in case. **_

_**That also brings me to the question, how far are you guys down with me going in this story? Some of the tributes I've received have pretty intense histories, which is awesome and wonderful, but like, I could take some to pretty heavy extremes. I've got no qualms about doing that (and boosting this story's rating to M if need be), but I want to make sure you're all comfortable with it. What are your thoughts on violence/sex/swearing/generally more crazy stuff? Let me know your opinions in a PM or review.**_

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><p><strong>Nero August, Mayor of District 2<strong>

This ridiculous ceremony is over-the-top and entirely pointless. Banners? Music? An audience? Goddammit, just appoint me in private and be done with it.

But tradition in 2 dictates a special service for events like this, and Octavian is all about tradition, so who am I to say anything? Besides, the oh-so-great president herself suggested we hold the ceremony like this. It'll help the members of 2 to see us as their people. Maybe that'll stop them from throwing a full-on riot tomorrow when Octavian and Julia go on air to make the announcement.

"—and so I hereby pass my title as mayor of District Two on to Captain Nero August."

Octavian steps away from the podium, beginning the applause that soon takes hold of the entire square. There's people cheering in the crowd as well._ Idiots. _What do they think I am, their knight in shining armour?

It only makes me madder to know that's _exactly _what they think. Like I'm some sort of divine hero the universe sent to fix all of Panem. Well, I'm _not. _These dumbasses think just because I saved a few people during the war, I can save all of them now? How convenient of them to forget that for every soldier I rescued, a hundred more of 2's citizens were injured and killed. I couldn't save any of them then, and I won't be able to save any of them now. All anyone on the Capitol's side can do is pray Octavian's plan will work. I'm not the hero here.

"Oi!" I shout above the clapping, rising from my chair and stepping towards the podium where my booming voice can be heard over the mic system. "That's enough of that. Save the applause for when I actually do something to merit it, why don't you. For fuck's sake, I've been mayor all of two seconds, and you're already throwing a goddamn party."

I can just imagine the look on Octavian's face at the less-than-eloquent start to my speech. But surprisingly, the smiles of the crowd only grow wider, filling up with humour and . . . relief? Hard to believe anything I say could improve anyone's mood, but maybe that's what the people of 2 need right now. A leader as crass as the average citizen. A leader who's gone to hell and back with the rest of them, and doesn't bother hiding it. A leader who's brutally honest, because overconfidence and sugar-coating the truth is why so many other mayors in the districts were run out of office when they lost the war they'd promised to win.

I'm not going to be like that, and maybe that's why I was elected. It was a surprise for me too, trust me. When Octavian first announced his planned retirement, both he and Julia suggested I try running, if only to help our family's reputation. I humoured them, but reluctantly and without zest, yet somehow the poll results came in and my name was at the top of the list. It took four days and plenty of arguments for Julia to finally convince me she hadn't rigged the election.

"All right, look," I say, staring out at the crowd of people who showed up to watch the ceremony. "No one elected me for my way with words, so don't expect some flowery speech about peace and hope. But I think you're all done with speeches anyways. No offense to my brother, of course."

I glance at Octavian, sitting off to the side of the stage and, shockingly, smiling encouragingly for me to continue. Huh. Would've figured he'd want me to tone down curtness, but maybe he believes I'm exactly what 2 needs as well.

Jeez, this district is chalk full of idiots.

"I'm an action guy," I say, turning back to the crowd. "I don't think about stuff, I just do it. That means I'm impulsive, that means I lack judgement, and that means I make bad decisions. But shit will get done. Don't ask me what kind of shit, because I'm not promising you people anything I'm not 100% sure I can deliver. I'll just do what I do, and you can decide if you voted right."

My initial anger at this crowd full of idiots is dissipating, leaving me with an unpleasant churning in my gut and the uncomfortable sensation of sweat rolling down my back. Damn, I hate public speaking.

"The only promise I can make? I'll do my best not to fuck up." I pull on my collar nervously. "Yeah, so, that's it. I'm done. Enjoy your weekend."

There's a moment of silence as I step away from the podium, and as embarrassing as it is to admit, I can't help but flush red as I return to my seat. What, are they expecting more? Two mere minutes I've had this new title, and already I'm letting people down.

The crowd's roar is so unexpected and loud, I nearly fall off my chair. My first assumption is their calling for my blood, or at the very least a re-election, but no, they're _cheering. _What? Why?

But cheer they do, until the multitude of Peacekeepers throughout the square start to herd the crowd back to the streets. I watch people go, laughing amongst themselves, chattering eagerly with their friends, pointing at me and grinning the biggest grins I've seen in a long time. The hell is up with these people?

Octavian comes to my side as the last few adults trickle out of the square. "You did good," he says, looking down at me with a smile that gets my stomach doing backflips. I feel like I'm five again, bouncing around the house every time my big brother mentions his pride in me.

Three minutes with power and I'm already losing it. _Get these stupid memories out of your head, now's not the time to go soft._

"You owe me big time," I grumble, slouching further in my chair. "Nothing I hate more than a bunch of idiots gawking at me."

"Well, you might want to start getting used to it." Octavian laughs then, honest-to-god laughs, and my heart leaps in my throat. I didn't think I'd ever see him like this—_happy_—again. Life keeps taking cracks at my brother, ever since Dad died, and I was terrified Marius's death would shatter him completely. For a while, it'd seemed like it did.

But then Julia brought Octavian's idea to her staff, and after a week of going over plans and ideas, the decision was unanimous. We're going to make the rebels pay.

"Still don't see why you can't keep running this place," I say, standing and making my way offstage. Octavian follows me as we set a course for our house. "Not like this game is going to last long."

"I have to devote all my energy to it. It's my job as Head Gamemaker."

I snort. "Still using that ridiculous title?"

"I like it." Octavian smiles, shrugging as I laugh again. "Still need a name for the whole thing, though. Any ideas?"

"Death Games? Punishment Games? We're-Going-To-Murder-Your-Kids-Slowly-And-There's-Not-A-Thing-You-Can-Do-About-It Games?"

"You know, I thought about those, but I'm worried they might be a bit too subtle."

That response stops me in my tracks. "What's this? Sarcasm from the oh-so-serious big brother? I thought you lost your sense of humour ages ago."

Octavian simply shrugs again. I think he's as surprised as I am, to be honest. When we were kids, he used to be quite the jokester. Quiet, but on the rare occasions when he'd open his mouth, he'd have you in hysterics. That all stopped when we moved here, though. I can't remember him genuinely laughing since.

It's because of his game. After all the shit he's been put through, he's finally going to start flinging it back, and why not? The rebels deserve it. What they did to Octavian's family, to my Aetius, to Marius, it won't go unpunished.

We continue walking, and soon our house comes into view. It used to be just Octavian's, but after his wife and daughter were shot, Marius and I moved in to support him. Loneliness is a dangerous thing in a home, sucking you in, engulfing you in memories of halls once filled with laughter and smiles and people. You can drown in it if you're not careful; I learned that the hard way.

"What time's your train again?" I ask as Octavian types in the entry code by the door.

"This evening. I need to finish packing. Oh, and Julia said she'd call at some point, see how the ceremony went and congratulate you again."

"Like she hasn't done it enough." I swear we're going to get smothered in sisterly affection. It's like she's trying to make up for twenty years of absence, and I don't like it. Please, Jules, please go back to being a selfish bitch so I can stay mad at you easier. Fucking nice people breaking down my walls—I've worked hard on those, you jerks.

Octavian runs up the stairs to his room while I head to the kitchen for a beer. There's definitely still some in the cupboard—I had three this morning to try and calm my nerves before the ceremony.

The phone rings just as I enter the kitchen. Only one person that could be.

"Couldn't give us a break for ten minutes, could you?" I ask, picking up and holding the receiver to my ear. "We literally just walked through the door."

"I know." Jules sounds odd on the other line—rushed, breathless. "I was watching the broadcast of the ceremony, trying to call you ever since it ended, but your cells were off."

"What's the rush? And if you say congratulations one more time, I will reach through this phone and strangle you, I swear to God I have that power."

"What? No, it's not that. Listen, is 'Tavian there? He needs to hear this too."

I put the phone on speaker and holler, "'Tavian, get your ass down here!" as loud as I can.

"Nice," Jules says.

There's a loud _thump _from upstairs, then a series of pounding footsteps as he races out of his bedroom. I slap myself mentally for shouting. To Octavian, every time someone yells could be a crisis waiting to happen, and he reacts as he always does: by rushing to the aid of the screaming victim.

"What's wrong?" he asks, barrelling into the kitchen, hands going immediately to my shoulders. "You all right?"

Great, now I feel bad. "Um, yeah, fine. Jules is on the phone."

"What?"

"'Tavian, is that you?" Julia's voice sounds so tinny coming out of the receiver, but it's impossible to miss the excitement in her tone. "Okay, boys, you're not going to _believe_ this."

"What?" Octavian repeats hurriedly. I think he's still worried something bad's happened.

"We caught them. We actually, finally caught them."

"Don't make me phone-strangle you for playing the pronoun game," I snap, patience wearing thin. "_Who_, Jules?"

"The bombers. The ones from the train. We found them, and we captured them _all_."

Julia giggles like a schoolgirl, but on our side, it's dead silent. I almost want to ask for more clarification, but I know what she means. There's only one blown-up train worth mentioning to us.

She has Marius's murderers.

"Did you kill them?" Octavian whispers softly. The look on his face is practically blank, but it sends chills down my spine all the same. Not that I have any room to judge; already there are gruesome scenarios playing out in my head where I have the bombers at my mercy.

"We've got them locked up," Jules replies, still babbling excitedly. "We think they might be part of a larger rebel group headquartered in Eleven, so we're conducting some . . . _interrogations_ to see—"

"Wait." It's my turn for an outburst. "Eleven? The bombers are from Eleven?"

"Most of them, yes. Bastards snuck their way from district to district until they wound up here."

She continues rambling on, but I've stopped listening. _Eleven. _The frontrunners of the war, along with 13. It was their men who captured, tortured, and killed Aetius and his squad. It was one of their assassins who shot Octavian's family, and who got Mom as well. Now this.

Was starving our people not enough? Thousands went hungry, got sick, _died _because they hoarded their produce to themselves. I saw their work firsthand.

My hope had died a long while before we finally got our forces into 11, but that didn't mean it had hurt any less. Breaking into one of the rebel camps and seeing the bodies strung up out front to strike fear into the hearts of captured enemy soldiers. _These are your strongest, _I was told the rebels would say, _And look how they turned out._

Of course he was up there. Aetius was the strongest man I knew. His blond curls had been torn from his scalp, sockets empty of warm, blue eyes—nose, lips, cheeks, all torn and bloody. Every inch of flesh had been stripped from him. But I still knew it was him, as soon as I entered that camp.

Through the stories told by the traumatised remains of the captured soldiers, we learned almost all injuries to the corpses had not been caused by crows like we'd thought. Everything had happened before our men and women had died.

They make me _sick. _That whole district is rotten to the core—we should have blown it up instead of 13. The deaths they caused, the pain, the hunger, the . . . the . . .

"Octavian," I murmur quietly. Funny, I wasn't aware my voice could go this soft. "I've got a name for your game."

His intense staring contest with the phone breaks as his eyes flicker to me. "H-Huh?"

"The Hunger Games. That's what you should call it." _So we never forgive. And so they never forget. This is all on 11._

From the phone, Julia says, "Has a nice ring to it."

I can see the gears turning in Octavian's head as he comes to understand my choice of name. When it clicks, I see that same fire appear in his eyes, the one I first saw nearly six months ago when he first revealed his plan to us. "The Hunger Games. Yes, it's . . . well, it's perfect. So now we have a name."

And tomorrow, we'll have the announcement. People in 2 are somewhat aware Octavian is leaving his position as mayor for an important job in the Capitol, but they know nothing beyond that. The rest of the districts, not to mention the majority of Capitolites, are even more clueless. But tomorrow, they'll all be enlightened. Octavian and Julia will reveal the game to the public on Panem-wide TV, and their explanation will bring the rebels to their knees.

An idea occurs to me all of a sudden. "Julia."

"Yeah?"

"The bombers, do they have any kids?"

She doesn't respond for a moment, but I can picture the smirk growing on her face. "I'm not actually sure. Want to come find out?"

"'Tavian and I will be there tomorrow. Don't have too much fun without us."

I click the phone off and glance back at Octavian, who still looks unfocused, his eyes glazed over as his lips silently mouth _Hunger Games _over and over again. I don't think he can believe our luck, and frankly, I barely can myself.

Finally, we have the rebels right where we want them.

"Looks like I've got to go pack too." I clap my brother on the shoulder and make for the stairs. "Head to the train station in an hour?"

Finally, we can avenge Marius.

"Yeah," Octavian murmurs distractedly before shooting out of his seat. "I mean, yes. Yes. Train station as fast as possible. We need to get to the Capitol."

I smile.

Finally, we can have the Hunger Games.


	4. Kale: Royally Screwed

_**Hello all! Sorry for the delay with this chapter, homework and other commitments came up and ate my time. But classes got cancelled today (all hail snow days!) so I had time to finish this up. **_

_**The tribute list is up on my profile now, along with links to everyone's theme songs. Thank you so much to everyone who submitted, I got a lot more tributes than I imagined, and they were all really, really awesome. If I didn't take one of yours, I encourage you to submit it to another SYOT, because the characters were fantastic. **_

_**So, now is the official beginning of the pre-Games chapters. This was quite a bit different to write than the prologue chapters, so any feedback is much appreciated. Additionally, it seems most people are all right with more mature content in here. There really won't be anything major happening until the Games, and I'll probably be keeping this story's rating at T - I don't think I'll need to push it to M, but again, I have no idea how the Games will go. For now, it'll stay at T, and I'll provide warnings at the top of each chapter if they're necessary. So, warning for this chapter: swearing, briefly described violence.**_

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><p><strong>Kale Hackberry, 17, District 11<strong>

We all knew we were screwed once they let us off work early.

I stretch out across my portion of floor, staring up at a hole in the ceiling. The light shining through flickers and dims—the sun's setting outside. I've never been home this early to see it from here.

Never thought I'd wish to be back at work.

All is quiet throughout our hut as the light continues to fade. Soft, even breathing on the other side of the room indicates my mother, surprisingly, has managed to take a nap just as she said she would. Sorrel, well, I don't know what she's doing, and I really don't care. I don't even know why she's here. Well, I do: she's got no home of her own to escape to when curfew comes. But as to why she's _here_ here, at my house specifically, I've got no clue. It's not like we're friends.

The last rays of sun fade, and shadows swallow our hut whole. No electricity for the outer towns of rebellious 11.

It makes me nervous. I'm not afraid of the dark—psh, please, I'm not a baby. But . . . well, who likes the dark? No one, that's who. And with the added stress of tonight looming over my head, I really don't need the claustrophobic press of shadows all around me.

Maybe I could light a fire. Yeah, yeah, that sounds good. Just a little one, obviously, nothing major. Or something bigger, you know, it's a _really _dark night. I can control it, I swear, I—

"I pray for forgiveness, for the president to leave punishment in the past."

The whispered murmur breaks the crushing silence, interrupting my anxious thoughts. It lifts a bit of weight from my shoulders, reminding me I'm not the only one in this dark, tiny prison. Not much help, but at least it stops my fingers from tapping madly on my stomach. I hadn't realised I was doing that.

"I pray for compassion, for help with Eleven's current conditions."

The voice peaks my interest, and unconsciously I find myself raising my head and straining to listen. It's Sorrel speaking, it has to be. My mother's not one for soft, gentle tones.

"I pray for safety. For Mr. Ascher who gave me those potatoes without asking for anything in return, and for his son, who's been so strong since his accident. For Ms. Pincus and Ms. Bantam, who are always so kind to all those they meet. For Mrs. Hackberry, the most tenacious woman I have ever seen, supporting herself and her son single-handedly since her husband's death. And of course, for Kale, who saved me from muggers all those months ago and has helped me ever since. He truly is—"

Okay, this is about to get awkward to eavesdrop on. I clear my throat before she can go any further. "What are you doing?"

"Kale?" There's a rustle by the door, movement in the shadows. "Sorry, I thought you were sleeping."

"Knowing what's coming? Yeah, right."

"The announcement could be something good. You never know."

"Then why you praying for safety, huh?" It's impossible to make out her face, but I can feel the doubt and fear radiating off her.

". . . just, just in case."

"Right."

Not that it matters anyways. Makes no difference who or what you pray to, the Capitol's the only one with the power, and pigs'll fly before those bastards help us. Doesn't matter if the war ended a year ago, they still haven't forgotten.

And they never will.

We both hear it at the same time. A distant _thump_, then another, growing steadily louder each time.

Shadows shift in my mother's corner of the room. Her sharp voice is impossible to miss over the sound of the next thud. "The Peacekeepers are coming."

We all shoot to our feet immediately. No hesitation, no reluctance to comply—we know the score. You disobey the Peacekeepers here, you get shot. Second chances don't exist in 11 anymore.

My heart rate increases as we hear the Peacekeepers pound on our neighbour's door. This is it; we're about to find out what new punishment the Capitol has in store for us.

On a rusty nail by my spot on the floor, an old leather jacket and ragged bandana hang—the only possessions I have left from before the war. I tie my dreadlocks back with the bandana and slip the jacket over my shoulders, trying to focus on its comforting warmth so I'm not tempted to set a fire and drive away my chill. Okay—okay, I can do this. I can deal with whatever they want to throw at us next. I am not afraid.

Something slams into our door hard, drawing a squeak from Sorrel as she stumbles back to my side. Her shaking hand finds mine, and though I roll my eyes and try to pull away, she only holds on tighter. Fine, whatever. She'll probably whine about it if I don't comply anyways, so might as well just deal with it, as long as everyone knows this is her idea, not mine.

My mother hurries to open the door, revealing three hulking Peacekeepers with shining flashlights.

"Three of you?" one grumbles, blinding us each in turn with his torch.

"Yes," Mom answers quickly.

"Outside, now. Follow the crowd. Move out of line, and you'll wind up with a bullet in your brain."

We don't need to be told twice. Stepping outside, we're immediately swept up in the tide of people moving towards our town square. It's a barren patch of dirt more than anything else, but 11's main plaza is miles away in the city, so they've got to do something for us. Besides, I think the Peacekeepers like it better this way. With the towns all cut off from one another, there's less chance we can band together and start a second rebellion. Worked so far—dunno about other places, but here we're about as aggressive as a flock of sheep.

Except for that one group. The bombers.

_No, don't think about them, idiot. That point in your life is done now. You didn't even want to be involved. Just forget it._

"Move it!" a Peacekeeper shouts up ahead, thankfully distracting me from my thoughts. I crane my neck to spot an old man hobbling sluggishly along with the crowd, supported by a girl no older than ten. No one's walking into them or berating them for their slow pace, but no one's exactly helping them either. All people do is hurry past them, heads down and eyes averted. They know what's coming.

_Crack!_

The impatient Peacekeeper brings his baton down hard on the old man's back. The girl screeches as he falls, one arm flying out to help him, the other rising to protect her head as the Peacekeeper targets her next.

Still the crowd moves on, not a glance in their direction.

"Ridiculous," my mother mutters beside me, her eyes continuously darting back to what's become a full-on beating. "That's not going to make them go any faster."

I roll my eyes. Of course that's what stands out to her. Not, you know, the old man clutching his chest and gasping for air on the ground. Or the little girl clutching her limp arm and sobbing for help. Or the Peacekeeper staring down at them mercilessly and raising his baton for the next blow.

Not that I care either. In 11, you interfere with the Peacekeepers, you get killed. Took a while for my district of idiots to adjust to this new status quo, but once the bodies started piling up, they learned words like _brave _and _compassionate_ are synonyms for _stupid _and _dead_. The heroic self-sacrifices stopped soon after.

But every so often, you find some fool who still doesn't get it.

"Don't even think about it," I murmur, grabbing the back of Sorrel's shirt as an extra precaution. She's got that dumb look on her face like she wants to help, which would only end in her death and probably mine too by association.

Unless I don't get involved. I really shouldn't; I mean, I don't know why I do.

_Damn her._

She purses her lips, eyes widening as the Peacekeeper lands another blow. "Kale, we need to—"

"Shut up."

"But those people—"

"Are dead." No use sugar-coating it. That's a little kid and an old man against a Peacekeeper with a grudge. I know how these things go. "Say anything, and you will be too."

"But—"

"Do you have a death wish? Because if those Peacekeepers don't shoot you, I swear I'll kill you myself. For fuck's sake, use your brain, Sorrel."

"But . . ."

I'm about to snap another death threat—I have plenty prepared for just such occasions—but when Sorrel doesn't continue her interruption, I let it go. She's got no argument, and I can see the truth of the situation in her eyes. She gets it. She just doesn't want to believe there's nothing we can do.

Well, open your eyes, sweetheart. Plenty of people thought like that when the Capitol first invaded, and they're all six feet under now. You either get with the times or get left in the dirt.

Sorrel has no further objections as we continue along with the crowd, and, soon enough, we reach the square. It's just as bleak as I remember it, but there's a large screen set up out front, two enormous speakers looming like bodyguards on either side.

This is bad. Normally there's only a crappy sound system broadcasting the president's tinny voice whenever she makes an announcement concerning 11. A setup like this . . . I haven't seen this since the day the war ended. This level of technology, it's only for big news.

We're definitely screwed.

People continue to pack into the square, surrounding Sorrel and I on all sides and pressing in close. I may be a big guy, but that doesn't stop the confined feeling I get staring out at all these towering heads and shoulders around me. All these people whispering, sweating, breathing so close to me like a living cage—ugh, it's making my eye twitch. If Sorrel didn't still have my hand in a death grip, I'm pretty sure my fingers would be fidgeting like hell.

Aaaand one of the Peacekeepers up front has a cigarette. And, yep, there's the lighter. I swallow, averting my eyes as he flicks it and a tiny flame bursts into existence. God, what I wouldn't give for . . . _no._ Don't think about it.

"Kale?" Dammit, now Sorrel's staring at me with her stupid, concerned eyes. "Are you all right?"

"Fine," I manage through gritted teeth. She doesn't know about my . . . issue. No one does. And that's the way it's going to stay.

_No one? What about Azolla and the rest of her team?_

Why does my brain hate me?

I shove the thoughts from my mind and force myself to focus on the screen up front, which is flickering to life now that we're all here. The president fills the screen behind her podium, but there's a man standing beside her who's never been there before.

My heart spasms just as Sorrel whispers, "Who's that?"

She wouldn't know—most from 11 wouldn't. But I've seen him before. Azolla had his picture, along with the president's and two others'. This guy's Octavian August, the president's brother.

Question is, is his presence good or bad for the districts?

"Greetings, Panem." The president's face is hard as she begins. "As I'm sure you're all aware, in exactly one week, we will celebrate the first anniversary of the war's end. It is a time for celebration, to be sure, a time for fun, merriment, and hope for our country's brighter tomorrow."

Why do I get the feeling only the Capitol will be partaking in this happiness?

"But this is also a time for punishment. A time for remembrance, to recall the horrors of the war and ensure they will _never_ happen again."

And there's the part for the districts. I thought as much.

"Panem has seen much progress since the war came to an end, and of that, I am proud. However, I fear we are already losing the past that has so defined us. I fear the districts are forgetting the hurt they have caused, and the cost of such horrible deeds."

Somewhere, someone cries out in rage. Without hesitation, a Peacekeeper up front fires his gun into the crowd. People gasp as a woman collapses—not the one who shouted, but what do the officials care? As long as we got the message, and we did. No one goes to help the fallen woman. The microscopic moment of rebellion is over.

"And so we have devised a plan," the president continues. "An event that will at once celebrate the end of the war and remind citizens of why it ended. Because the Capitol's might is absolute. Because violence is a terrible, terrible thing. But the districts don't seem to realise this. They started the war, knowing full well the deaths, the pain, the suffering it would bring about. They _enjoy_ it."

She looks directly at the camera. "So we shall give you the Hunger Games."

No one says a word for fear the Peacekeepers might shoot again, but I can feel the surprise radiating off the crowd, and for once, I'm with the rest of these idiots. The Hunger Games? The hell is that? Honestly, a "game" is the last thing I thought I'd hear the president announce.

Yet despite the innocent title, a shiver runs down my spine all the same. Something about it doesn't feel right.

"Allow me to introduce to you all my brother, Octavian August. Some of you may know him as the former mayor of District Two. Now he is Head Gamemaker, the mastermind behind the Hunger Games. He will explain them to you now."

Polite clapping bursts from the speakers as the president steps aside and her brother takes to the podium. It's weird seeing someone so . . . normal on Capitol TV. Capitolites all so made-up and surgically-altered, they barely look like people anymore, but this guy's got natural dark hair, eyes, and skin, all done up in an unassuming suit.

Something's throwing me off though, and I don't like it. Maybe it's the look in his eyes as he stares at the camera. There's something hidden in his warm gaze, something . . . twisted. I write it off as a trick of the light, because this guy, crazy? He looks like a middle-class businessman or an office worker about to file some papers. Sure, a Capitol-loving asshole, most likely, but little more than that.

Except then he starts to talk. About the Hunger Games. My eyes grow wider and wider as he continues his speech, and at one point, I think I stop hearing him all together. Yet somehow, I still grasp every word. They ricochet violently around my head, pounding on the inside of my skull, running through my mind over and over.

_Twenty-four kids—a boy and a girl from twelve to eighteen taken from each district._

_Twenty-four kids taken through the Capitol, jumping through hoops like parades and interviews for the Capitol's entertainment._

_Twenty-four kids dropped in an arena._

_Twenty-four kids made to fight to the death._

_The Hunger Games._

It hits me then, and I wonder if anyone else realises. The _Hunger_ Games. It's named for us. For what we did to the Capitol. And why wouldn't it be? We were their biggest enemies besides District 13, and now that 13's rubble, who do they have to turn their hatred towards but us? Especially after they discovered our citizens were behind the bombing of the president's train.

I still remember watching Azolla and all the rest get dragged away the day they were found out. I still remember being terrified for a week after that someone would give me up and I'd get taken next. I hadn't signed up for that—I hadn't signed up for any of it. Azolla had blackmailed me into it; after she saw me set that barn on fire, it was either face the wrath of the Peacekeepers or go with her and put my "skills" to good use. Dumbest idea I'd ever heard—I'm a pyr—. . . a normal kid with a few small issues, not some explosives expert. I think her second rebellion movement was just desperate for members. At least they did me the decency of not ratting me out to the Capitol when they got caught.

Unless . . .

Oh.

Oh, shit.

Shit, shit, _shit_.

Hunger Games. Kids twelve to eighteen. Example for the rebels.

I am so, so screwed.


	5. Vesper: All I Deserve

_**So, remember when I said there were some tributes with pretty awful histories? Yeah, here's the first of those. So, warnings for swearing, child abuse and just all around violence. Yeah. I got some pretty intense tributes, which is awesome, but I can tell you right now, this is not going to be a happy story. **_

_**But, then again, this is a story about twenty-four children murdering each other. If you want happy, I think you're in the wrong fandom.**_

_**One thing I forgot to mention earlier, if you have any personal desire to see your tribute narrate a certain chapter leading up to the Games (like you think they'd be good for the chariots or interviews or whatever), lemme know in a review or PM. Should've mentioned that sooner, sorry to the guys whose tributes I already wrote chapters for, you're stuck with these ones.**_

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><p><strong>Vesper Prospero, 17, District 1<strong>

The world is a blurry mess by the time I wake. It's impossible to make sense of my surroundings—grey walls, metal tables, a wooden chair broken in two. Wh-what? This isn't my bedroom.

I try to prop myself up on my elbows but wind up curling into a ball instead when my body erupts with pain. Everything, everywhere is on fire, burning and twisting and throbbing, and I-I can't take it, it _h-h-hurts._

I moan, squeezing my eyes shut tight as though the darkness can hide the agony, but it only increases. Maybe because half my face is stinging viciously; the area around my left eye feels particularly swollen and tender. Gingerly, I lift a trembling finger to trace the edge of my cheekbone, holding back a sob when I feel the warm stickiness of blood smeared across my flesh. O-_ow_.

The memory of what happened floods back to me easier than I thought it would in my dazed state. But it's hard not to recognise the obvious signs of Cartier's handiwork; he's got this clunky wedding ring that always scrapes with his punches. Besides, this isn't the first time I've woken up on the break room floor battered and bruised.

It takes a lot of effort and many groans of pain, but eventually I manage to assume a semi-stable sitting position. _Ow. O-Okay, checklist, Vesper. Anything b-broken?_

My limbs all seem pretty intact, but my ribs feel like they were hit by a truck. I do a well-practiced check, fingers skimming carefully across the flesh above the bones, and though it brings stinging tears to my eyes, I don't think anything is fractured. Cracked, maybe, but I-I can handle that, I swear. It's nothing, r-really. I can even stand.

Supporting as much of my weight as I can on the closest table, I manage to struggle halfway up before footsteps outside the door send me tumbling back to the ground. No, no, please, don't let them be back, n-not yet. I'm not, I can't, I-I don't think I can go through this again, not so soon.

But what can I do? Don't I . . . don't I d-d-deserve this anyways?

The break room door slams open and I cringe back beneath the table as though it might hide me from probing eyes. Ridiculous, of course—they're going to spot me, and then they're going to do . . . whatever I deserve.

No, whatever the president of Panem deserves. Whatever our Capitol-supporting mayor and the rest of 1's dwindling upper class deserve. Whatever my father, who ruined the lives of so many common workers, deserves. But they're all untouchable.

I'm not.

I close my eyes and cover my head with my arms, preparing for the onslaught of insults and punches I just suffered through earlier today. Normally things aren't this bad, I swear. Three or four attacks a week, nothing more, nothing I can't handle, h-honest. But there's a lot of fear in the district today, knowing what's coming for us tomorrow. And fear is so easily turned into anger when properly provoked.

But no blows come, either verbal or physical. All I hear over the sound of my shallow breaths is a gruff, low voice barking, "Vesper."

It's Mr. Lassale, my boss. Instantly, my eyes snap open, and I rush to stand, despite my injuries and the fact that I'm still under the table.

Mr. Lassale rolls his eyes as I sit back hard on the ground, rubbing my now-throbbing head, but I can see the calculating intelligence behind the irritation in his gaze. He doesn't miss the small smears of blood on the floor tiles, the torn fragments of what was once my jacket, or the general black-and-blue tint of my exposed skin. But he doesn't say anything. Why would he? I'm not worth the fuss.

Instead all he snaps is, "You're supposed to be gone already. I'm letting everyone off early because of tomorrow." He tosses an envelope at my feet. "Your pay for the week. Now get out of here, kid."

Mr. Lassale turns and strides out the door without another word. He's not a fan of my family either—no one is—but at least he's nice enough not to hit me. I should follow his orders in return.

Picking myself up off the floor (and making sure to crawl out from under the table beforehand), I grab the envelope and rise unsteadily to my feet. My jacket's in ruins, and my shirt's not looking much better, but my hat, off in the other corner of the room, looks relatively whole. I stumble over to it and stick my earnings inside before yanking the brim low over my head. Best for me not to be recognised walking home.

Every step hurts as I stumble out of the break room and towards the factory exit, but I push through the pain. Have to get home, have to get this money to my family. After my parents lost their business empire during the war, we've had little to keep us going. Even less since my father keeps using my pay to buy pain relievers.

_No, don't think like that!_ my brain shouts frantically. If Father even guessed at my thoughts . . . no, best not to think about it. Besides, he needs the medicine. He's used them for so long to treat his chronic pain, what would happen if he stopped?

_He'd feel like me. He'd feel exactly like I do every time someone beats me for his past deeds._

_Would that be such a bad thing for him to feel, just once?_

I stumble out the factory door and stop to take a breather on the sidewalk, shaking my head to clear it. These thoughts are just my addled brain being stupid. It's okay. I'm okay. Really, I am.

My house is an hour's walk from work, a trek I usually make twice a day without complaint, but right now, I-I don't know if I can make it. W-would it really be so bad to use a little of my earnings for bus fare?

I shouldn't. My family needs this money, my father needs it . . . but I don't know how much further I can walk.

Without thinking, I wind up at the nearest bus stop, digging some cash out of my envelope for fare. _It makes sense, _I try to reason, try to make the pit of guilt in my stomach disappear. _The way I am now, I might not reach home on my own. And I'd be easy pickings for muggers. It's better this way, it is._

I still feel bad as I stagger onto the bus. Less so when I sink into the nearest seat and ease the pain of my aching muscles. I could fall asleep right now.

"Look at that," someone whispers snidely behind me. "A Prospero taking public transportation. Now I've seen everything."

"What, no private hovercraft?" comes another voice.

"How the mighty do fall."

"Looks like we're all equal now."

"Equal? Please, they're even lower than the rest of us. You could find more worth in a piece of shit. 'Least that helps your garden grow."

Cruel laughter follows the whispers, but as long as they don't start a fight, I'm okay. Really.

Over and over, the words of the conversation repeat in my mind, growing louder and louder each time. _How the mighty do fall. Lower than the rest of us. Piece of shit, piece of shit, piece of SHIT._

Could the bus drive a little faster? I'd like to get home soon, please.

In the meantime, I try to distract myself by fixing up my appearance. Judging by my reflection in the window, I'm not looking good, and I can't show up at home looking like this. My family might be worried.

_After what Father already does to you? They'll be more worried about your blood staining the floor than anything else._

"That's not true," I whisper to myself, trying to flatten my hair against my forehead so it might cover my black eye. But my words don't even convince myself.

Finally, the bus gets to my neighbourhood, and I stumble off quickly. A big, burly man I vaguely recognise makes to follow, but holds off when I reach the path to my house, thankfully close to the bus stop. I'd rather not deal with another fight, or anything else tonight.

When will I learn? What I want doesn't matter.

The first thing I'm greeted with when I slip through our front door is a shout from my mother. "Who's home?"

"M-me," I answer, trying to keep my voice steady and my expression free of pained grimaces as I hobble down the narrow hallway and into the kitchen. "H-Hello, Mother."

She glances up from the pot she's stirring for only a second, just enough time to take in my injuries. There's no concern in her voice when she says, "You're home early too."

"Mom's boss let her off because of tomorrow," Ceria says, carefully positioning cutlery on our tiny dining table. She's equally unaffected by my appearance, but she does curl her lip when she mutters, "The 'holiday'."

"Hate it as much as you want, Cee." Visian grins as he pulls plates from a rickety cupboard. "Would you really rather be in school tomorrow?"

"_Yes_. Are you stupid? Two kids are getting picked to die tomorrow, idiot. That's not a good kind of holiday."

Just the mention of it makes me sick, but no one pays attention to me. They don't know what Father has told me to do.

And even if they did, would they care?

"Any kind of holiday that gets me out of a math test is a good kind of holiday. Besides, it's not like the Capitol's actually serious about this whole punishment thing."

"You only say that 'cause you're not eligible for it. You're too young to understand."

Visian sticks out his tongue in response, but as he does, he loses his focus on the plates. And his grip.

Everyone in the kitchen jumps as the first goes crashing to the ground. Visian gasps and manages to recover the others before they shatter, but it might be too little, too late.

We all hold our breath and wait.

"Oi! Was that something breaking? _Was it_?"

I flinch as my father's voice booms down from his bedroom. Ceria is staring, horror-struck, at Visian, who's in turn staring at the shattered plate like it's a dead body. My mother, however, leaps into action.

"Visian, put those plates away. Ceria, grab the broom," she barks, snapping her fingers at my siblings, who scurry off to comply. Then she turns on me. "Vesper."

My heart sinks. I know what she wants.

"Go appease your father."

I should want to comply. Anything to help my family. Mom's just looking out for the little ones, that's all. Ceria and Visian, they're still young, still in school. They've got a chance at better lives. I'm a lost cause. Mother knows; she's just using it as best she can. Who cares what happens to a worthless kid with no future?

_Piece of shit, piece of shit, piece of shit._

I trudge out the door and up the rickety staircase leading to the bedrooms. My parents' is the first on the landing. It shouldn't take me as long as it does to gather the courage to enter.

"Vesper." My father is already rising from bed when I step through the door. I have to fight to keep from trembling as he approaches. "Why are you home?"

"H-h-half day, sir." I swallow. "Because of tomorrow."

His glowering expression doesn't change. "And that crash?"

_Visian. Visian, it was Visian. Say it. Let someone else take the blame. Let someone else endure._

"It was m-m-me. I'm so, so sorry, sir, I-I dropped a plate and—"

I don't see the hit coming, but I expect it all the same. My jaw erupts in pain as my head snaps to the side, but I can't stagger. That'll mean I'm not strong enough. That'll mean another lesson.

"Do you think we're still made of money?" my father hisses, one hand on my collar, slamming me back against the wall. "Do you think I can afford to keep a clumsy little shit in my house?"

_Piece of shit, piece of shit, piece of shit._

"N-no, sir."

"Don't stutter."

Surprisingly, the command is not punctuated with another blow; his mind is elsewhere.

My father licks his lips, letting go of my shirt and rotating his shoulder with a grimace. The pain is acting up.

_Good._

"Where's the money?" he snaps.

I'd completely forgotten I was still wearing my hat. "Here," I murmur, taking it off and pulling out the envelope. There's a greedy glint in his eyes as he snatches it from me.

It doesn't last long. I freeze as he begins to count the bills and coins within the envelope. It'll be seconds before he realises—

"There's less than usual."

"B-because of the half day," I stutter. It's not a lie, it's not. It's just not the whole truth.

But nothing gets past Argenion Prospero. I quail beneath his gaze as he raises it from the envelope to meet my terrified eyes. Why, why did I think saying that was a good idea?

Before I know it, I'm on the ground, his foot slamming into me over and over and over. "What happened to it really?" he demands. Kick, kick, and kick again. "_What happened_?"

"I took the b-bus," I manage to stammer between pained gasps. "Please, I-I'll get more!"

The kicking stops, but that doesn't mean anything. I whimper as he kneels beside me and grabs my wrists in one hand, pulling my protective arms away from my face. The other hand grips my hair tight, yanking my head up to his.

"Yes," he growls, shaking me sharply. "You _will_."

He yanks me to my knees before forcefully shoving me out the still open door to the bedroom. "Study up," he growls, taking something from his pocket and hurling it at my feet. Then he's gone, slamming the door with enough force to rock the entire house.

I lay there for a while, curled up onto the ground with my hands covering my mouth to muffle my sobs. My father doesn't return, and neither my mother nor my siblings come up to see me, even though they must surely have heard our altercation through the thin floor.

W-w-why does this happen? It didn't used to be like this; sure, my father was never the nicest of men, but he was never cruel to his family until the Capitol found out Uncle Gieves was a rebel and tore all the Prosperos down because of it. I mean, I guess that excuses him, r-right? Father had a tough fall from business magnate to begging pauper; he deserves to vent. And I deserve . . . do I-I deserve this?

_Piece of shit, piece of shit, piece of shit._

The tears don't stop for a long time. Only when my sobs are reduced to distraught gasps do I realise what my father threw at me.

It's a pamphlet, one I'd recognise anywhere. The Capitol's been bombarding our district with them ever since the announcement last week. _Hunger Games!_ they advertise in big, bold lettering on the front. Inside, it details all the 'fun' of the event, but my sister's right: it's a terrifying threat masquerading as an enthusiastic booklet.

But my father doesn't see it that way. He only has eyes for one paragraph in the pamphlet.

_Ah, and what is the prize for winning such an arduous event? Why, only the title of 'Victor', the first of his or her kind to prove themselves the ultimate champion over their peers. Not only that, but he or she who is Victor shall gain wealth and glory beyond their wildest dreams. Their entire district will be showered in riches, but the Victor shall stand above all the rest with their head held high, knowing the strength and skills he or she possesses are the sole reason for their people's prosperity._

Father is a businessman, and he taught me from a young age that businessmen see opportunities in everything. This Hunger Games is an opportunity, he told me as soon as the president's brother announced the prize for winning. I would bring fortune back to the Prospero family, he repeated while punching me across the room after I showed fear and reluctance at his suggestion.

Volunteering was allowed, the president's brother had said. And so I would volunteer, my father had said. I would go to the Capitol. I would win the Games. I would restore my family's status as the wealthiest in the district. And then maybe I'd finally be more than a . . . a . . .

_Piece of shit._

My hands find the pamphlet without thinking, at through bleary eyes I gaze at the image on the cover. One child standing over another, his sword driving deep into the fallen one's chest. With his head bent, showing only a shock of light brown hair, I could almost believe the attacker is me.

The kid getting stabbed looks a bit like my father. Or the man on the bus who wanted to start a fight. Or Cartier and the others at work. Or every citizen in 1 who ever hurt me.


	6. Adia: Do You Hear the People Sing?

_**So I may have let my love for theatre get away from me a bit here. Eheh, sorry about that, it just worked so well. For best results for this chapter, read it while listening to either one of Adia's Newsies theme songs, or, of course, "Do You Hear the People Sing" from Les Mis.**_

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><p><strong>Adia James, 15, District 3<strong>

Subways are disgusting. 3's hot, clammy weather only makes it more disgusting. But the fact that we're all getting herded to the city for two kids to be stolen away from their families and thrown into a crazy death match is the most disgusting aspect of all.

Yeah, today's going to be a _great_ day.

I clench my fists as we pass yet another Peacekeeper shoving the crowd along none-too-gently with his baton. Up ahead by the subway doors, there are officials literally grabbing people and cramming them into the train. This one's only taking teenagers too, carting us directly to the square for the stupid reaping, but still, there's way too many kids to fit. Hey, jerks, ever think of maybe, I don't know, getting _another _train, instead of packing us all in like sardines?

I'm just about to say something similar out loud, but a hand taking mine stops me. "Don't," Hannah whispers as we near the people pushers. "Not today. Really not a good time to be on their radar."

I'm about to snap back that she always says that and never takes any risks, but one glance in her eyes tells me she's dead serious, even moreso than usual.

Right. Hunger Games. Death Match. Punishment for the rebels. Fine, guess I can take it easy for one day.

That doesn't make me any happier to feel the touch of a Peacekeeper as she grabs my shoulders and literally flings me into the train. Hmm, blonde hair, blue eyes, nose thrust in the air like she's some sort of goddess amongst mortals—oh yeah, I know her. Came by the laundromat I work for and dropped off a whack-load of Peacekeeper uniforms to be cleaned. How terrible when, somewhere along the line, a bright red shirt got thrown into the mix and turned all their outfits a darling shade of pink.

Bitch couldn't prove anything, but that didn't stop her from giving me a black eye and a few gruesomely-detailed threats. Guess she still remembers me. So much for not standing out today.

Miracle of miracles, Hannah and I somehow wind up near the seats on the subway. Unfortunately, they're already occupied by some scrawny fourteen-year-olds. Damn.

"Hey, Hannah," I whisper, though to be heard over the chatter from everyone else, I might as well be shouting. "Play up your limp. Maybe we'll get seats."

She rolls her eyes and stands more firmly on the leg a bullet tore into three years ago. "I'm not pretending to be in pain just to soothe your lazy ass."

At that moment, the train jerks to life, sending everyone tumbling into each other. I barely manage to grab a pole in time before Hannah plows into me.

"You were saying 'bout pretending?" I ask as she stumbles away, cursing and rubbing her forehead from where our heads knocked.

"Damn, that smarts. How are you not feeling this?"

"I've got a tough head."

"More like a thick skull."

I stick out my tongue. "Yeah, well, not like intelligence matters here anymore. We'll all be doing grunt work for the rest of our lives anyways."

I expect a snappy comeback from my ever-so-sassy friend, but Hannah gets real quiet at that. Crap. I forgot what a whiz kid she was back in school, before everything went to hell.

We've known each other since kindergarten, and back then, when all the other kids in our class were telling the teacher how they wanted to be cowboys or ninjas or astronauts (I went with wizard—obviously the best career choice), Hannah wanted to be a software designer. At _five_. She could've done it, too—skipped two grades in the time it took me to fail one. The brightest of futures was waiting for her, and she nearly had it in her grasp, 'til the Capitol came and ruined everything.

It makes me angry all over again. I mean, I knew I'd be a Grunty no matter what, much to the chagrin of my parents. _You won't be happy, Adia. Everyone looks down on the Grunties, Adia. Maybe the reading will get better if you keep at it, Adia_—blah, blah, shut up. I don't see everyone's deal with manual labour here. Yeah, brains are great and all, but if the geniuses in 3 were stuck doing their Albert Einstein thing in dirty clothes for the rest of their lives, no one would be happy.

It was a good system 3 had: the Smarts on top, fiddling with their computes and acting oh-so-superior, and us Grunties looking out for 'em, dealing with the insults 'cause we knew we were the most necessary part of people's lives.

But the Capitol took that too. Now only the rich are allowed to use their brains, which is stupid 'cause those poncy bastards had their minds melted by money a long time ago. The rest of us are stuck doing menial labour, which absolutely kills people like Hannah and my parents. All right, at first I may have been like, "Hey, assholes, welcome to the other side!" but now I realise it's wrong. They deserve to use their brains, just like I deserve to use my mad laundry skills.

Okay, I have to stop thinking about this, or I will punch something. Let's imagine something nice. Rainbows. Flowers. Kittens. Like the ones families used to own before the Capitol starved us so bad people had to start cooking their pets.

Yeah, that's not helping.

Fortunately, one of the fourteen-year-olds on the seat near me gets the idea to lift the mood as well. Shaggy, dark hair, brown eyes—oh yeah, I know him, sort of. Fiddle Kid. Lives in the same camp as Hannah and I, always starts to play after we all return from brutal shifts at the factories. My little brother loves to run around and dance to the songs. I refrain, obviously. Music is for the weak.

Of course Fiddle Kid has his quintessential fiddle with him, and after a couple of glances at his forlorn friend next to him, he begins to play. A cheery, upbeat melody fills the train, some typical 3 number you'd find little kids humming in the playground.

Some people glance up at the sound, but most, like Hannah and Fiddle Kid's friend, keep their heads bowed and expressions sombre. It makes me uncomfortable—I've never been one for silent moping. I don't get sad, I just get angry, and then I do something about the thing making me angry and, tada, no more anger. Short, simple, effective.

But right now, everyone feels too powerless to do anything about our situation. Fight back, get shot, or get sent into these crazy Hunger Games. How do you inspire people out of that funk, help them realise they don't just have to lie down and take it?

Unconsciously, I find myself singing along to Fiddle Kid's song, if only to distract myself. Lame, I know, but otherwise this cloud of gloom and sorrow will drown me too.

I'm whispering the words quietly enough that Hannah can't hear them—or just ignores me—but the fiddler looks up and pauses his song to grin at me.

"You've got a nice voice."

"I've got a crap voice," I correct, slightly embarrassed to be caught in the act. "You play nice, though."

"Thanks. Want to hear another? Anything to make people feel better."

"Don't think kid songs can do that today." I glance at Hannah, who's not listening to a word, lost in misery like all the rest. Fiddle Kid glances at his friend, looking much the same as I continue, "You got anything, I don't know, stronger?"

The boy hesitates. His eyes flicker from his fiddle to his friend, then gaze out at the mass of despondent teenagers surrounding us.

He raises his bow, puts it to the fiddle once more, and another familiar song fills the train. It's not one I've ever heard him play before, not one I've ever heard on an instrument like the fiddle, but I recognise it all the same. It's from an old musical, the kind 3 used to put on before the war. Yeah, we had musicals—what, you think we're just a bunch of nerds doing science stuff all day? Everyone always used to call 8 the creative district, but we had our fair share of theatre. And all right, maybe I used to sneak in to see a few shows—you got a problem with that? I can be tough _and_ artsy. So there.

Like before, I start to hum along, and soon it turns to quiet singing.

_Do you hear the people sing?_

_Singing a song of angry men._

The full meaning of the words hit me then as I remember exactly what the song is about. Fiddle Kid's eyes meet mine, but neither of us stop. Maybe, behind that cheery persona, he's finally had enough as well.

_It is the music of a people_

_Who will not be slaves again!_

Oops, that was a little loud on my part.

_Was_ it just me though? I could've sworn I heard another voice joining in.

_When the beating of your heart_

_Echoes the beating of the drums_

No, there's definitely other people singing too. Fiddle Kid's friend has raised her head, much to his delight, and is it my imagination or are Hannah's lips moving as well?

_There is a life about to start_

_When tomorrow comes!_

The fiddling grows louder. Somewhere in the subway, I can hear someone tapping out a drum beat on the wall.

_Will you join in our crusade?_

_Who will be strong and stand with me?_

But the majority of kids look just as despondent as before, staring mournfully out the windows of the subway at the tunnel walls surrounding us. It's like a prison. The whole district is like a prison.

That has to change.

_Beyond the barricade_

_Is there a world you long to see?_

People are starting to look up now. Fiddle Kid's friend scooches over in her seat, tapping the spot and staring up at me expectantly. I roll my eyes—really? My caterwauling will scare people away more than anything else.

But I hop up on the seat all the same, finally tall enough to be seen over the heads of everyone. All eyes go to me as I shout, so off-key any musician would cry.

_Then join in the fight_

_That will give you the right to be free!_

It's like all the fiery, rebellious passion I hold in my heart has finally boiled over and overflowed into my peers. Suddenly, I'm not in a subway full of downtrodden teenagers, but survivors, _fighters_, proud members of 3 who are sick of the Capitol's crap. Voices swell around me, even kids who don't know the song humming along to the tune.

_Do you hear the people sing?_

_Singing a song of angry men._

_It is the music of a people_

_Who will _NOT _be slaves again!_

_When the beating of your heart_

_Echoes the beating of the drums_

_There is a life about to start_

_When tomorrow comes!_

It's invigorating, standing up in front of a united group of kids: one voice, one heart, one goal. The Peacekeepers can push us down all they want, we will always be around to help one another and we will _always _get back up.

You want to take two of us for your sick little game, Capitol? You want to murder two of _our _people?

Good. Fucking. Luck.

_Will you give all you can give_

_So that our banner may advance_

Doesn't matter if the song is referencing some ancient revolution in a long-gone country. It's timeless. The words might as well reference how the district feel about the Capitol.

_Some will fall and some will live_

_Will you stand up and take your chance?_

Because you can bet we're all united in this.

_The blood of the martyrs_

_Will water the meadows of France!_

Every sacrifice will be honoured. Every death that brings us closer to our freedom will be cherished. None of this suffering will be in vain, because we _will _beat the Peacekeepers, and the Capitol, and anyone else who tries to hurt us. We are unbeatable.

_Do you hear the people—?_

The subway screeches to a halt at the station, throwing everyone off-balance once more. I hadn't realised we'd come out of the tunnels and reached the square, I was too wrapped up in the song, but this is perfect! Now we can storm out singing, punching any Peacekeeper who gets in our way, and—

The first kid screams. Then another, and another until I finally see it.

Through the windows of the subway, the square is just visible with its giant screens set up for the reapings. Only teenagers are being assembled here, as it's far too small to fit the entire population of the district. Adults and little kids were assigned viewing areas throughout 3 to watch the events as televised on TV.

Right now, it's those viewing stations that are shown on the screens in the square. The TV jumps from one to another, but they all look the same to me.

Bodies strewn across the street. Huddled groups of sobbing survivors. Peacekeepers with guns still smoking marching through puddles of blood.

My mom, my dad, my little brother, they were at one of those viewing stations. So were all the parents and siblings of the kids on the subway.

They massacred our families.

The kids who first started screaming haven't stopped, and now they're pounding on the windows of the subway, sobbing and shouting at the screens with tear-streaked faces. Fiddle Kid and his friend have disappeared, lost somewhere in the tide of kids making for the doors. And Hannah . . . Hannah!

I look around wildly, but I can't spot her through the seething mass of teenagers. No, no, where did she go? A crowd riled up like this, they could trample someone and not even notice.

My heart pounds faster, my throat starts to close, but I force the feeling of dread away. _No! Don't be afraid, Adia. Be angry. Angry is always better. Angry gets shit done._

The Peacekeepers are going to rue the day they did this. The whole damn Capitol is going to pay, Ms. Fancy Pants President and her sadistic brother most of all. I'm going to kill them, all of them, I swear. Starting with the Peacekeepers who did this. When I find them—

But just then, the subway doors slide open and the Peacekeepers find me instead.

An army in white barrels into the train, outfitted in full riot gear. The kids nearest the doors go down at once, shields slammed into their faces or batons knocking their legs from underneath them. The Peacekeepers don't even care who's aggressive and who's not; they're taking everyone out.

Without thinking, I leap off my seat and bolt down the train, following the others escaping the wrath of the law. Part of me hates myself for running, for being a coward, but I can't seem to stop. Maybe I don't mind challenging one or two Peacekeepers to a fight, but getting involved in that mob? That's suicide.

So much for being unbeatable.

Tears are blurring my vision, angry tears aimed at both the Peacekeepers and myself, but it's impossible to miss the wave of officials streaming into the train up ahead. Every door is blocked by men and women in white, all wielding batons and Tasers and whatever the hell else they use to torture us. There's no escape.

I try anyways, leaping onto a chair to avoid the nearest Peacekeeper, but his baton catches me in the stomach mid-flight. The blow sends me to the ground, my head cracking against the floor so forcefully it sets the subway spinning.

I know I need to get up, but I don't know why. To run? To hurt the Peacekeepers? To help the other kids? All of that seems useless; as I lie on my side, I can see teens running past me, only to be knocked down just as I was. By chance, Fiddle Kid wound up nearby; I can see him in a corner, clutching his broken fiddle in one hand and shaking his unconscious friend with the other until a Taser takes him out as well. And Hannah, where did she go? Is she all right?

I don't have time to find out. The Peacekeeper who got Fiddle Kid notices I'm still awake too, still trying to struggle to my feet, and she strides over, Taser in hand.

My last conscious thought is that life isn't a goddamn musical, and I was a fool to ever get caught up in hope. The districts don't get a happy ending.


	7. Chance: Plan B

_**This chapter should have been up much earlier today, but as I'm sure you guys all know, FF was being kind of stupid. Ah well. **_

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><p><strong>Chance Hensley, 12, District 2<strong>

I should have run to another town. Heck, I should have run to another _district_.

Should have, should have, should have. But I didn't.

And now I'm screwed.

"Hey, kid!"

I freeze, halfway down the alley between the baker's and the tailor's. The voice isn't one I recognise, but I have no doubt who it belongs to. The Peacekeepers have found me, like I should have known they would. I thought coming to one of 2's tiniest towns was a good idea; less security, so I figured I could slip away from the reapings without anyone noticing.

So much for that.

A hand clamps down on my shoulder, and I have just enough time to yank the brim of my hat low over my head before a Peacekeeper spins me around to face him.

"You all right, kid?" A much kinder face than I'd expected is peering at me from beneath a mess of brown curls. I look down quickly, trying to avoid eye contact. He can't recognise me. "You're not out here all alone, are you? Where are your parents?"

I bite my lip, and immediately the Peacekeeper realises his mistake. We did just go through a giant war, after all. Orphans on the streets are a pretty common sight.

"I'm really sorry." The Peacekeeper bends down to look me in the eyes, his gaze comforting and sympathetic. I can feel the nervous sweat running down my neck. _Don't recognise me, don't recognise me, don't recognise me. _"For what it's worth, I bet they were brave, your parents. They'll always be remembered for their heroic sacrifices."

I don't know whether to cry or laugh at that. This man's just so oblivious.

_You don't even know who my parents are. You wouldn't be so nice to me then. Not when my father killed five of your kind before you put him down._

"Tell you what," the Peacekeeper says, clapping me on the shoulder. "Why don't I bring you to the reapings, okay? I'll buy you an ice cream when we get there."

He gives me a grin, a wide, innocent grin as though he believes ice cream can solve the world's problems. How is it possible that I'm at least a decade younger than this guy, and yet I feel a million times older?

That's the thing about war, I guess. Kids don't get a childhood.

I can't turn down the Peacekeeper's offer though, not without looking suspicious, so my only option is to let him usher me out of the alley. He leads me off down the street, babbling on about these new Hunger Games and spouting lines of propaganda the Capitol's been feeding our district while I nod distractedly on occasion. Inwardly, though, my mind is racing a mile a minute.

I can't go to this reaping ceremony, not if it requires giving my blood to the Peacekeepers. They'll find out who I am. Even just being in close proximity to them is tempting fate.

But I also can't _not _go to the ceremony. The Peacekeepers have made it pretty clear the punishment for that is jail time, and that's not something I want to deal with on top of everything else. Though, with my luck, I'd most likely be arrested, then recognised and executed.

Either way, I wind up caught and dead. How am I supposed to get out of this?

My eyes start to sting, and before I know it, I'm blinking back tears. _Darn it, Chance, don't be a baby!_ There's no point in crying just because I'm frustrated. And starving. And exhausted. And sick, sick, _sick _of doing everything by myself and being so alone all the time.

"Kid?"

I look away as the Peacekeeper bends down beside me once more. _Stop!_ I want to shout at him. _Stop being nice. You're supposed to be evil like the monsters who killed my father and chased me around the district for three years. Don't make me like you. Don't make me trust you._

I can't handle another betrayal.

So I step back when the Peacekeeper lifts a gloved hand to wipe the tears from my cheeks. "I'm fine," I mutter, rubbing my sleeve across my face before attempting a grin. _Hide the sadness with a smile, like you do all the time. _"Just allergies."

"Okay," he says, smiling in that semi-patronising way adults do when they don't believe you. "I just hope you're not lactose intolerant too."

He takes my hand, and before I can pull away, drags me around the corner to where the festivities are being held.

A makeshift stage has been constructed in the centre of town, an enormous screen looming behind it to broadcast the mayor's speech and our Capitol representative's reaping of the two tributes. Only the city kids will be there to witness the event live, but apparently we're all just as eligible to be picked, no matter which town we're watching the events from. The thought makes my stomach turn.

Which only makes it odder to see ice cream vendors and knick-knack stands and little carnival games dotting the area all around the square. Not exactly setting the mood for sending two kids off to die. But I guess this is a simultaneous celebration for the first anniversary of the war's end, a war our district did help win. Besides, most people in 2 are loyal to the Capitol, and they're convinced they have nothing to fear from these so-called Hunger Games. "Only for the rebels," they say to each other. "Or the kids of rebels, I'm sure of it."

True or not, it does nothing to make me feel any better.

My Peacekeeper companion brings me over to the nearest ice cream vendor, where a bunch of kids my age are hanging out and waiting for the sign-in line to dwindle so they can get the ceremony over and done with. With a shock, I realise a few of them seem vaguely familiar. If they've lived in this town all their lives, then maybe we weren't schoolmates, but I could have seen them at a science fair, or a piano recital, any number of the normal activities I used to do before the war. I wonder if we've ever spoken. Maybe if I go over there . . .

_No! Are you stupid, Chance? You can't let them recognise you._

Right. I should look away, pull my hat even lower over my face . . . but I can't tear my eyes away. I want to keep watching them, in the most non-creepy, un-stalker-ish way. It just reminds me of what my life might have been like for me if things had gone differently during the war. I could have been over there, talking and laughing with all of them, maybe harbouring a secret crush on the redheaded girl or sharing an inside joke with the smirking boy. These kids, they're everything I used to have. Everything I lost.

And now watching them is painful. I turn away, trying to ignore the growing heaviness in my heart. Usually I can keep the despair at bay, but sometimes . . . life just sucks, you know?

"Chocolate or vanilla?"

"H-huh?"

I shake myself out of my thoughts to find the Peacekeeper smiling down at me, gesturing to the ice cream vendor.

"Chocolate or vanilla?"

"Oh, um, it's okay, honestly." I cross my arms nervously across my stomach, hoping the Peacekeeper can't hear it growling. Hungry or no, I can't take food from this guy. We're supposed to be enemies. "I'm fine."

"Come on, it's a celebration! How about one of those swirly ones, you know, with both flavours?" he continues to the ice cream vendor, handing the woman some coins.

"Really, you don't have to," I say, taking a step back. "Don't waste your money on me."

"Why would I ever consider this a waste?" the Peacekeeper says, smiling back at me.

No. No, no, I can't take this again. He's melting my defenses; try as I might, I'm losing my ability to hate him by the second. Soon I'm going to start liking him, even _trusting _him. And that's the worst thing I could possibly do. Last time I put my faith in a person, she lowered my guard and proceeded to turn me into the Peacekeepers while I was sleeping. I barely got away. That can't happen again.

Yet the ice cream vendor hands me a cone before I can run, and the Peacekeeper's looking at me so expectantly, what else can I do? Reluctantly, I take the treat, though with no intention of eating it. That wouldn't be fair to the Peacekeeper, unknowingly supplying his enemy with food.

But then my stomach cramps up, and I remember the last time I had something substantial to eat was yesterday morning when I found a stale bun in the baker's garbage. Everything goes kind of foggy after that, and soon I realise I've devoured half the ice cream cone without a second thought.

The Peacekeeper's smile looks sad as he watches me eat. "Hungry, huh?"

"I'm fine. But, uh . . ." I swallow hard and look at my feet. "Thanks."

"No problem. Listen, I've got a friend who works in the city specifically to help kids like you. If you want, after the ceremony I could give you a ride down, and she could get you all set up. Lot of really nice community homes over there, or maybe we could find foster parents who—"

"I'm fine," I say, quicker than I meant to. The last thing I need is more Peacekeepers to see me than this one; others might not be so slow to recognise me. "Thanks, but I'm really fine."

The Peacekeeper puts his hand on my shoulder. "You know, you don't have to do this alone."

Great, now I'm going to cry again, and not just a few tears this time. Why, why did I have to run into a _nice_ Peacekeeper? I hate him for it, but I hate myself more because that's exactly what I wanted to hear him say.

_You don't have to do this alone._

I don't want to—I really, really don't want to. I miss people I can rely on, and people who will keep me safe, and just people who don't want to see me beaten and killed for my father's crimes. I miss friends, and family members, and all the joys that came with both. I miss goodnight kisses, and hugs, and being tucked in at night. I miss it all _so much_, and it makes me want to break down right now.

As quickly as the moment of weakness comes, however, it disappears. I shake my head so violently my hat nearly flies off. What happened to my common sense? People can't be trusted, and I'm better off without them. How many betrayals will I have to endure to drive that fact through my head?

The Peacekeeper sighs and opens his mouth to press the issue, but thankfully, he's distracted by one of his comrades; I don't know how long I could hold out saying no to him.

"Last call for sign-ins!" a Peacekeeper at the table by the teenager sections shouts. "Kids twelve to eighteen, if you have not signed in yet, you must do so _now_."

"Guess I got to go," I say, turning quickly away from my Peacekeeper companion. "Thanks for the ice cream and all."

"Hold on, you're _eligible _for this?" He looks me up and down. "How old are you?"

"Yeah, okay, I'm short, but I am twelve. Barely twelve, but still, twelve."

"Wow. Sorry kid, I didn't think . . . well, I guess we should get you into the line."

"Wait, you don't have to come!" I blurt out as he steps forwards. Desperation is evident in my tone, but I can't hide it; this is my one chance to escape, even though I have no idea how the heck I'm going to do it. "I'll be fine on my own."

But the Peacekeeper just smiles. "Come on, you don't think I'd come all this way to abandon you now? I'll stick with you, kid, no worries."

I hate myself for feeling happy and relieved at his words. _Lonely is still better than being with a Peacekeeper, Chance!_

The fear sinks back in as I get in line, moving closer and closer towards the Peacekeeper signing kids in. Still the nice guy stays beside me, giving me no opportunity to escape. What should I do, what should I do? Just run? No, way too suspicious. Maybe play up my fear at this event, get him to take me off to the side where I could slip away? Yeah, that could work; everyone seems to think twelve-year-olds are babies, so if I turned on the waterworks he just might—

"Next."

I hadn't even realised I was at the front of the line until the nice Peacekeeper gives me a reassuring smile and a small shove forward. "It'll be fine," he whispers. "This whole Hunger Games business is just for the rebels. Don't be scared."

Oh, buddy, I am scared of a lot of things, but the Hunger Games is nowhere near the top of my list right now. The only reason my face is paling and my eyes are widening is because the sign-in woman has grabbed my hand and pricked my finger before I can think to pull away.

I try to step back, but the woman has a firm grip on my hand as she presses my bleeding finger to her paper. Only then does she let go, but it's too late—far, far too late. As she raises her device to scan my blood, the reality of the situation hits me so hard I nearly collapse on the spot. Now is the time to run, but my legs aren't working, and oh God, I _can't_. Fear holds me paralysed as the woman scans my blood and my name pops up on her device.

She barely spares it a glance at first, so used to doing this all day. But then she stops. Then she looks back. Then she fully reads my name and all its implications.

The nice Peacekeeper is peering at the display as well, and he too freezes at the sight of my name. So he didn't recognise me, but he does know of me. Chance Hensley, son of Blaze and Lace Hensley. My mother was a doctor who went to work in 11, where the fighting was worst and she was needed most. My father was the man who went crazy after the Capitol bombed her hospital because there _might _have been rebels inside.

After he killed the first Capitol-supporting Peacekeeper, a bounty was placed on his head. After he killed four more, the officials decided it'd be easier to shoot him down instead. Sure, it deprived them of a public execution via whipping, but they still had one Hensley left for that. All they had to do was catch me.

Now they have.

"Chance Hensley," the female Peacekeeper says slowly, glancing at her colleague beside me.

Fear urges me to run, but fear also holds me back. Running is how Dad got shot. Yet if I stay here, my fate might be even worse. _What do I do, what do I do?_

"Twelve, right?" The Peacekeeper glances at her scanner and nods to herself. "Last section, at the back. Off you go."

_Wh-what?_

I'm so shocked by her words, the only thing I can do is obey. My feet move of their own accord to my designated section while my head feels miles away, shocked and confused as I try to sort through what just happened. She . . . she let me go. They both did.

Does that mean . . . could the Peacekeepers possibly be done with me? Maybe, after three years of playing cat and mouse all around the district, they've finally decided the chase isn't worth it. Has my name really been cleared?

A balloon of hope expands inside my chest, carrying me in a daze as I go to stand by my peers. I feel like I'm floating, like a massive weight has been pulled from my shoulders and left me as light as a feather. For the first time in three years, I am _free_.

"Are you sure we shouldn't be more worried about this?"

Through my stupor of awe, I barely process any of my surroundings, but it's impossible to miss the whispered conversation of the two boys right in front of me.

"I mean, the president's brother did say they were taking two kids to _die_," the more nervous of the two continues. "Doesn't that sound kinda ominous?"

"Dude, chill. Our family's 100% devoted to the Capitol. Why would they want to kill kids like us? I told you, this is only to weed out the rebels."

And just like that, my hope crumbles.

How could I have forgotten? There's more than one way to make an example of someone. Arresting me, beating me, that was only the Peacekeepers' Plan A. And now that it's failed . . .

It's time for Plan B.


	8. Soren: His Sister's Keeper

_**Trying to get one more chapter out before my short break ends. Unfortunately I've got a busy week coming up, but thankfully reading week is after that, so the updates might slow for a bit, but they'll pick up soon.**_

_**Also thought I should mention, in my story, I use a confusing jumble of book canon, movie canon, and my own made-up stuff. So the finger-pricking was like the movie, but as you'll see in this chapter, kids are separated just by age, not gender, which is how it was in the book. My made-up stuff is mostly liberties I take in regards to the district, like giving them buses, subways, musicals, etc, anything I feel it makes sense for a future civilisation to have, whether it's dystopian or not.**_

_**Warnings for this chapter include swearing, violence, and hinting at some pretty awful things. District 6 is not a pretty place to live.**_

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><p><strong>Soren Tains, 15, District 6<strong>

Gunshots ring across the city square for the fifth time this afternoon. Out of all the teenagers assembled here, not a single one flinches.

Adi doesn't look happy, though. "So many in such a short amount of time," she whispers, looking at her feet. "That . . . That isn't good."

I sling my arm around my sister's shoulder. "It happens. Don't worry about it."

"They could be killing innocent people, Soren."

I try to refrain from snorting, for Adi's sake. Ain't no innocent people in 6, 'cept my sister. Everyone's got blood on their hands, or else they're drug dealers or users, thieves, vandals, arsonists, pick your poison. Besides, no "innocent" people would be fighting against the Peacekeepers trying to drag them to the square. More likely it's some addicts hopped up on whatever the drug of the day is.

"It's going to be fine, Adi. Honestly, don't worry about it."

Another gunshot rents the air. She takes my hand and squeezes

Is that . . . _snickering _I hear behind me?

I glance over my shoulder to see two boys whispering to each other, smirks on their faces.

All right, you two just signed your death warrant.

"Hey, is that Cody over there?" I propel my sister off through the crowd of fifteen-year-olds. "You should go say hi."

"But I thought you didn't like— . . . oh, okay. Hey, Cody!"

She stumbles off in search of her friend, not even glancing back in my direction.

Good.

I spin around before the boys behind me can react and punch the short one right in the jaw. He goes down like a sack of bricks, and before his friend can cry out, I slam my other fist into his stomach.

"Think you can laugh at me, eh?" I snarl, bringing my elbow down on the taller guy's back so he falls next to his friend. "You fucktards forget who I am?"

I yank down the collar of my shirt so they can see the small tattoo sitting just above my heart: a pitch black tire, engulfed in flames. Their eyes widen, and their faces pale.

"Yeah, that's right." I kick one in the face, glad to see the blood spray from his broken nose. There's a reminder that won't fade anytime soon. "You messed with a motherfucking member of the Blazing Tires gang, dumbasses. Do you really think that was smart?" I add, raising my foot to kick the boys again. "_Do you_—?"

"_Ahem._"

I whirl around, fists up, ready to punch whoever dared to interrupt me, only to find my twin standing before me, hands on her hips. Jeez, it's kind of scary seeing the female version of your face glaring at you angrily. She's more terrifying than I am.

"Adi." I lower my fists and try to cross my arms nonchalantly. "You find Cody?"

"You sent me on a wild goose chase. Which I knew from the start. I'm not stupid, Soren. Now, why?"

"Why what?"

"Don't be dumb," she says, walking around me to the two guys on the ground. Completely ignoring my objections, she helps them both to their unsteady feet. "Now, you should apologise."

"_What_?"

"Apologise, Soren! You just beat these guys up."

"Yeah, um, sis, can we have a family chat? Just the two of us?" I grab her arm before she can say no and drag her off to a different part of the fifteens section, glaring daggers at the boys over my shoulder to let them know this isn't over.

"Okay, what?" Adi demands once we reach the edge of our section.

"First off, scram," I snap at all the kids around us. They take one look at me and scatter; thank God not everyone's as stupid as those two assholes.

"Why do you have to do this?" Adi frowns at the running kids, her bottom lip trembling. "Soren, you don't have to be so _mean_."

"Adi, I'm trying to keep us alive, all right? Listen to me—no, seriously, listen." I take her by the shoulders and look her dead in the eye. "How many times do I have to tell you, you can't interfere with stuff like this? It'll make me look weak."

"'Weak' is not the opposite of being a jerk, Soren."

Bless my sister and her too-pure-for-6 heart, but sometimes, she fails to see the point. "It does here. Come on, Adi, you've lived in Six all your life, and you—"

"—have never been mean to a single person. And look, I'm still alive."

I have an urge to tell her that's only because of my reputation, but I don't. It makes it sound like she doesn't carry her own weight, like she's just some burden I have to protect, and she's _not. _She's my sister, Adeline Tains, a smart, kind, beautiful young girl, and anyone who says differently is a motherfucking liar.

But she had the misfortune to be born in 6. Intelligence, compassion, beauty, none of that matters here. Only who's got the bigger gun, and who's got more bullets left.

"We could've done without the gang, you know," Adi says quietly. "You didn't have to join them."

Damn it, I'm going to _kill _Cody when I see him next. He was the one who suggested Adi spy on me to figure out where I kept disappearing off to. Things were so much simpler before she knew I'd joined the Blazing Tires to keep us safe.

"All right, maybe I didn't have to," I say. "But you know it was the safest option. No, don't look at me like that, you _know. _Two nine-year-olds without parents and with a whole lot of money? We would have been dead in a week, tops."

She refuses to say anything, but I know the expression she wears; I get it too when someone's made a point I can't argue with. Deep down, Adi understands how 6 works, she just refuses to see it because she hates the system. The evil get rich, the good get dead, and we all go to hell. Oh, wait, no we don't, 'cause we already live here.

"Whatever," she says after a long pause of trying to find a better retort. "I'm going to go _actually _find Cody."

Out of the goodness of her heart, she doesn't finish the rest, but I hear it all the same. _Because he's better company. Because he's not a jerk. Because he tries to fight the system with me, instead of passively accepting it._

She turns on her heel and strides away, leaving me angry with just about everything under the sun. Why does she have to make things so hard for me when I'm just trying to keep her safe? No, this isn't her fault; why don't I have the strength to make it honestly in 6, instead of conforming to the criminal status quo like everyone else?

No, this isn't my fault either. Why do the officials in 6 let things run like this? Why do people keep electing the same drugged-up mayor to sit on his ass and do nothing for our district? Why does the Capitol refuse to send us the help we need?

Yep, always someone else to blame. How convenient.

I catch the eye of a few fifteen-year-old girls looking my way and send them a stone cold glare. "Something funny?

They shake their heads furiously, not that I've ever let people off the hook like that, but before I can really start anything, the screen at the front of the square flickers to life, broadcasting the image of the mayor live from Chaos City, 6's capital.

Yes, our cities are named after which gang runs them. This might come as a shock, but we're kind of a messed up district.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Mayor Ford drawls lazily into the microphone. "Boys and girls. Hi."

And he's high as fuck. Wonderful. Makes me so fucking proud to be from District 6.

"So . . . speech. Right. I have a treat here . . . no, no, treaty, the Treaty of Treason." The mayor pulls a wad of cue cards out of his pocket, holding them up for everyone to see. "Right here. Yes. So, let's begin!"

He smiles and does a wide, sweeping gesture with his hands, which results in the cue cards slipping from his grasp and showering the nearest members of the audience.

"Oh. Oh no. Hey, could you pass those back up? Yeah, I see there's one by your foot . . . oh, you stepped on it. No worries, no worries. I'll just do it from memory. Got it all up in the old brain."

Through the speakers, I can hear the kids in Chaos City's square hooting and hollering insults up at the mayor. A fair few are doing it here as well. It doesn't faze the guy at all, of course; he just keeps standing behind his podium, smiling genially at everyone.

"So, Treaty of Treason. Well, there were the Dark Days. No, no, Panem first. The formation of Panem. From North America. 'Cause there were . . . droughts. Or was it storms? Wars? Ah well, stuff happened, then, poof, Panem! But then we were bad, Dark Days and all. More war. More storms—no, just war. Then the Capitol won. And now there's these Hungry Games. Hunger Games. Hmm, yeah, I'm hungry too."

He pats his stomach, blinking slowly at the crowd as though he doesn't understand why everyone's still watching him. "So, Happy Hungry Games! Something like that. Oh, and here's Sparkles McBubbly from the Capitol to do, you know, hungry stuff."

He wanders off the stage after that, bumping into the lady from the Capitol as he goes. Her outfit is indeed sparkly and covered in legit bubbles (the fuck, Capitol fashions?), but her expression isn't nearly as perky.

"_Sparla Boubuison_," she says curtly into the microphone. "Your Capitol escort. I do hope you all watched the announcement last week on the Hunger Games, because otherwise," she glares at the mayor, "You might be a little lost.

"Now, I am here to reap one male and one female tribute to compete in the event known as the Hunger Games. During this time, I demand your utmost attention. There shall be no interruptions, no shenanigans, and no funny business of any kind. Understood?"

Onscreen, I watch someone in the group closest to the stage hurl a tomato Sparla's way. She dodges nimbly, as though expecting it, and immediately Peacekeepers converge on the thrower. There's a few loud shouts, quite a bit of scuffling, two gunshots, then everything settles down. The Peacekeepers retreat, white uniforms dotted with new droplets of crimson.

Once upon a time, I might have been horrified. Now, my first thought is _eh, just another day in 6._ I'm not sure if that's a good or bad thing.

Sparla curls her lip as she glares out at the audience. "Savages," she mutters into the microphone. Without further pause, she strides over to one of two giant glass balls onstage with her. "I will now reap the female tribute," she proclaims, thrusting her hand into the sea of papers.

There's a startling lack of reaction from the audience as she does so. I don't think the idea of these Hunger Games has sunk in for most people, and many still refuse to believe the Capitol will actually go through with it. Besides, this is 6, where you find the corpses of murder victims on the street literally every day. Stealing two kids away for a week's vacation in the Capitol before you kill them is probably one of the best fates someone from 6 could hope for. God knows I won't be feeling sorry for whatever wimp gets their name drawn.

And I stand by that thought. Until Sparla unfolds the slip. Until she opens her mouth and the words that come out are, "Adeline Tains."

Oh, no. _Hell_ no. No fucking way.

The screen up front jumps around to different squares throughout the district until it comes to a stop at ours, the cameras somehow knowing just where to focus to centre my sister in their shot. Her eyes are wide, her mouth open like she doesn't know what to think. Already there are Peacekeepers converging on her; aside from Cody, who she did actually find, all other kids have moved away.

I repeat: No. Fucking. Way.

The kids around me seem to have a pretty good idea of what I'm about to do, because they all scatter as I charge through the crowd. Yes, I realise this whole Hunger Games thing might be a joke or whatever, but I'll be damned if I let them take my sister away from me.

I reach Adi's side before the Peacekeepers do, and immediately she throws herself into my arms.

"Soren, what do I do?"

"Absolutely nothing. I won't let them take you."

"Um, guys?" Cody pipes up at Adi's shoulder. "We've got company."

The Peacekeepers finally manage to break through the crowd and meet us. Immediately, Cody and Adi step behind me as I draw my switchblade. It's not much against six Peacekeepers, but it makes them pause. Yeah, that's right, you bastards thought searching us at the start of this would prevent weapons from getting in here? Dumbasses.

My moment of triumph, however, lasts only a second. Then one of the Peacekeepers draws his gun.

"Get out of the way, kid. Or I will shoot."

"No, don't!" Adi leaps past me. "I'll go, I'll go!"

"Like hell you will!" I shout. "I won't let them take you."

"And I won't let you get shot!"

"Adi, stop!"

But she's already letting the Peacekeepers grab her and drag her towards the stage. I let out a roar and lunge after them, but two more pull me back, twisting my arms behind my head and forcing me to drop the knife. I know how to get out of this kind of attack, but if I do, what's to stop them from shooting me? Then I'll be no help to Adi at all, but still, I can't let her do this alone!

It hits me then, the memory of the announcement last week when the president's brother was explaining the rules of the Hunger Games. What was that thing he mentioned?

The volunteering clause.

"Wait, I volunteer!" Yanking my arms out of the Peacekeepers' grasp, I rush to Adi's side, ignoring the guns turned on me. "I volunteer to go with her."

That gets the Peacekeepers to pause. One of them glances at the other, muttering, "Is that a thing?"

"It is indeed," comes the voice of Sparla over the speakers. She must be watching this from the capital; a split screen forms on the TV, half of it showing Adi and I, the other half the Capitol woman. "However, you are supposed to wait until a male tribute has been chosen for your chance to volunteer, young man."

"Do I look like I give a fuck? There's no way I'm letting you bastards take my sister alone." It doesn't matter what these Hunger Games actually entail, I won't let the Capitol separate us. I promised I'd always be with her after Mom and Dad disappeared, and that is one promise I never intend to break.

"Soren . . ." Adi's eyes are red and slowly filling with tears. "You shouldn't—"

I ignore her, still speaking to our Capitol escort. "I. Volunteer. It's fucking simple as that."

"Well, all right," Sparla says. "Bring them both up to the stage."

We only get halfway to our square's pathetic little stand, however, before Sparla puts her finger to the headset in her ear.

"Hold on, I'm getting a call from Copper Hand City." She frowns. "Can we get a visual?"

Our TV screen splits again, half still filled with Sparla's face, half showing another rundown square. Their stage is even more pathetic than ours, but somehow it holds the weight of the two Peacekeepers and the teen girl standing on it.

The girl looks directly at the camera, and the first thing I think is _stranger_. Of course, 6 is a highly populated district, there's bound to be kids my age I don't know, but she gives off a whole different vibe altogether. I've never seen hazel-blue eyes like that in 6, and they seem . . . fuller. She clearly seen her share of hardship, but she looks nowhere near as hollow as most kids growing up here.

And is that the District 4 symbol tattooed on her left hand?

"Are we finally on air now?" the mystery girl mutters to a Peacekeeper, the one holding a phone to his ear.

"I think so." He waves at the screen. "Miss Boubuison? Can you see us?"

"Of course I can." Sparla rolls her eyes. "What's going on?"

"This girl, she, ah—"

"Riri Kramer," the girl says. "I'd like to volunteer."

My heart skips a beat. Does this mean . . .?

Sparla frowns, clearly not expecting all these complications. "Well, I suppose you can, if the reaped tribute permits it. Adeline Tains, what do you say?"

"Yes! Yes, yes, oh, thank God, yes!" Adi yanks away from the Peacekeepers' grip and throws herself into my arms.

"Oh God, Soren," she mumbles into my shirt. I can feel her tears starting to soak the material. "I was so scared for a second there, I-I thought—"

"Hey, it's okay," I whisper, patting her on the head. Who gives a damn if I look soft right now; I'll go beat someone up later and fix my reputation. "We're all fine."

"Well, this was quite the surprise," Sparla says, her face now back to filling the screen. "Two volunteers for District Six. You people are quite eager for the Hunger Games. I suppose this concludes the reapings, and—"

"Whoa, whoa, what?" I demand as the Peacekeepers grab me again. "Hey, I'm not volunteering if my sister's not going. Let me—fuck, let me _go_. I'm not fucking volunteering anymore!"

I glare at the screen up front, but Sparla continues speaking as though she can't hear me. Maybe they're not broadcasting our square anymore, but still, that doesn't mean this is fucking done!

Adi screams as they pull me away, and I'm shouting as well, hollering every curse word I know at the top of my lungs as I struggle against the Peacekeepers. No danger of being shot now, not if the Capitol wants me for their weird-ass Games—not that they're ever going to get me.

I wrench my arm out of one Peacekeeper's grasp and deliver a solid punch to his nose. He stumbles, trips, and disappears into the crowd of kids; now I've just got to take out this other one and I can run back to Adi. It'll be all right, I'll be able to protect her again, and then—

Adi screams my name, louder than before, and I turn just in time to see reinforcement Peacekeepers racing forward. The one at the front of the crowd has his baton poised to swing at my head.

It's too late to block. The club hits me square in the forehead, and I go down without another word.


	9. Milo: Mr Popular

_**I should probably have been doing homework instead of this. Oops. But, on the plus side, you've now seen 1/4 of the tributes. Yay!**_

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><p><strong>Milo Heath, 13, District 12<strong>

"Milo!"

"They can't do this!"

"I'm so sorry I ever hated you."

"I won't be able to live without you!"

The stream of girls flooding into my room seems endless. One by one they run in, cry, apologise, and attempt to console me in ways I probably shouldn't allow, considering I do currently have a girlfriend. But to heck with it—I don't let that stop me normally, and even if I did, I figure today's circumstances entitle me to whatever the heck I want.

So I don't step back as a pretty, blonde girl barrels through the door and throws herself into my arms. What was her name again? Ashlyn? Embra?

Eh, it's not important.

"Oh, Milo. Milo, I-I can't . . . I can't believe . . . Oh, _Milo_."

"There, there," I say calmly, patting her back and glad she can't see my grin with her face buried in my shirt. I must say, realising how many people love me enough to miss me has been a wonderful boost to my ego. I feel all warm and fuzzy.

It's almost enough to make me forget about my situation.

Almost.

The girl looks up when my reassuring pats come to a stop. I try desperately to drag my trademark smirk back on my face, but judging by the pitying look in her eyes, my expression is still far too stricken for my liking. Not good. I'm supposed to be Milo Heath: ladies' man, bad boy orphan, prankster extraordinaire. Not a crying baby. I already hurt my reputation enough losing my cool at the reapings.

"You poor boy." The girl wraps me in her arms, squeezing the life from me with her hug. "You poor, brave boy. And to think, we've wasted so much time being angry with each other! Life really is too short."

Okay, now she's irritating me. First of all, _we've_ been angry with each other? I don't even remember her name, and I certainly don't care about girls like her enough to feel any sort of emotion for them. Besides, what reason would I have to be mad? _I _broke up with _her_, like I do with every girl. No hard feelings on my part—they just get boring after a while.

Secondly, I don't like how she's talking about me like I'm going to die. I mean, everyone knows these Hunger Games are just a bluff. The Capitol wouldn't actually throw kids into some death arena, and even if they did, what kid in their right mind would leap to killing? No, we'll be taken away for a bit, paraded around while the Capitol makes a few baseless threats, then shipped right back home.

That has to be what'll happen. It has to.

"Look, I've got more friends waiting outside," I say, pushing the girl away none-too-gently. "You should probably get going."

She nods sadly. _Darn it, stop staring at me like I'm already a corpse_! It's making me breathe funny, and I don't like it.

But then she jumps back towards me, pressing her lips against mine, and I decide maybe she's not the worst visitor I've had today.

The Peacekeeper manning my door walks in while we're in the process of "saying goodbye", and once again her groan fills the room. I must admit, I have enjoyed watching her stoic expression grow more and more exasperated over the course of this hour as she lets each new girl into my room. These new Peacekeepers are such jerks, it's good to mess with them once in a while.

After a series of increasingly loud coughs I purposely ignore, the Peacekeeper finally approaches and physically separates us. "There are still more visitors waiting to get in," she grumbles to me, steering the girl towards the door. "Better see them now before you lose your last chance."

My smirk freezes on my face, unmoved even by the girl's proclamations of newfound love for me. The Peacekeeper rolls her eyes and drags her out the door.

Immediately, she's replaced by the only two people I really care about: Asher, my best friend in the world, and Caleb, who might as well be my big brother. With them comes Charlotte, my girlfriend of the month. But I don't care about her, I swear. Please, you think I'm stupid enough to actually involve emotion in my relationships? That's not what cool people do.

Nevertheless, I fake it really well by smiling as she comes to sit next to me on the couch, her hand automatically finding mine and squeezing it comfortingly. It actually feels kinda nice.

No, stop it, Milo. Don't be lame.

"About time you guys showed up," I say, keeping my attention on Caleb and Asher as they come to sit by us. "I've been waiting for ages."

Neither of them cracks a smile. Asher's eyes are still wet, as though he only just stopped crying two seconds before walking in here. Which sucks, because now _my_ eyes are stinging, and tears are not something I need to deal with right now.

Thankfully Charlotte knows when to jump in. "We've been waiting a while too," she says with a smirk to rival my own. "Apparently there were a lot of visitors trying to get in to see you. I wonder who got in before us?" she adds, trailing her finger across my cheek. It comes away stained red with lipstick.

Blech. Which one of those girls was wearing lipstick? First off, kind of a disgusting way to spend your money when most of the district is starving to death. And also, makeup, really? That's for like, old ladies. Thirteen-year-olds don't need it, they're pretty enough as is. Just look at Charlotte.

Ahem. Pretend I didn't think that.

"Well, you know what a popular guy I am," I say. "I mean, everyone in the district knows my name."

"Mm, well, that doesn't necessarily mean you're popular, does it? Infamous, more like."

"'Least they know me. I bet—"

But before Charlotte and I can finish our teasing banter, Asher leaps from his chair and practically tackles me in a hug. Um . . . okay?

"Come on, man." I pat Asher's back awkwardly as he sobs into my already-damp shirt. "Don't . . . Listen, it's going to be fine, all right? The Hunger Games are just a bluff."

He only wails louder at that. Darn it, my exceptional charisma never extends to situations with crying people. What am I supposed to say?

Desperate, I look to Caleb for aid. He's a whole four years older than the rest of us, so he's got to know everything.

He looks at his shoes, not meeting my gaze as he mumbles, "That's what we said last time."

"What?"

"Last time. When they arrested all those people. We said that was just a bluff too."

My heart sinks; I remember now. Only a few weeks after the war ended, the Peacekeepers rounded up a bunch of adults suspected of being involved in the rebellion. What they were really after was a group of innocent men and women as hostages to spur the real rebels into giving themselves up. Otherwise everyone the Peacekeepers had arrested would be executed.

Asher's father was one of those people. We told him the Peacekeepers were just bluffing, trying to spook the rebels out of hiding. Nothing would actually happen to his last living family member.

The execution was public. Lasted all day. Every single captured man and woman was shot.

Is that my fate now? Or something worse?

"N-no." I curse myself for not being able to keep the stutter from my voice as I face my friends. "Doesn't matter what we said last time, this has to be a joke. Right? Come on, _killing_ kids? Forcing them to kill each other? That . . . That would never happen. I mean, even the Capitol isn't that stupid." I try to laugh. It doesn't come out right. "It's all just some dumb prank. Like the ones we play on the Peacekeepers. Right, guys? Guys?"

I need them to agree; more than anything, I need them to agree. But Asher's still busy crying, and Caleb has always been brutally honest with me, right from the beginning. I didn't think today could get any scarier than when that flouncy Capitol lady called my name, but the moment Caleb breaks eye contact, I feel terror seep into my veins like I've never felt before.

"Well, I guess it was a tie, then. Pity."

Charlotte's words come out of nowhere, so sudden and confusing they shock me out of my panic. "Wh-what?"

"The race to see who would break up with who first. The reapings so rudely interrupted it."

"I-I didn't know we were racing. And, hey!" I turn my attention from Caleb to stare incredulously and Charlotte over Asher's shoulder. "You were planning on breaking up with me?"

"Weren't you planning on breaking up with me?"

"Well, yeah, but . . . I mean, I always do that with girls."

"I know, which is why I wanted to be prepared. I mean, being broken up with is like being declared the loser in a relationship. It's a competition." Charlotte smiles. "And you know how I get with competitions."

Do I ever. Us Seam kids used to race all the time back when we were little, and I swear Charlotte nearly pulled my hair out when I first beat her.

"Such a pity," she continues, shaking her head sadly. "I was so looking forward to coming first."

"Uh, there's no way you would have been first."

"Oh, really?"

"Have you seen my dumping skills? I have mad dumping skills."

"Big deal. I'm awesome. I'd win."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Guys!" Asher cries, finally pulling himself off of my shirt to stare at the both of us.

In response, he gets two simultaneous "What"s as our heads turn to him.

"Could you maybe _not _be idiots for once? They're taking you away, Milo, to the _Capitol_! And then they want to . . . they want to . . . oh God, they want to kill you! They want to kill twenty-three kids, and one of them is you! I-I can't _take _that, not a-again, not after D-D-Dad. Please, you guys are the only family I have l-left."

His words dissolve into sobs, and he sinks to the floor, burying his face in his hands. I should comfort him, but all I can do is stare in shock and listen to his words repeat in my head.

He really believes these Hunger Games are going to happen. So why shouldn't I?

"We should go," Charlotte says, her eyes flitting between Asher's trembling form and my panicked expression. She hops to her feet and tugs on Caleb's arm. "Right?"

He may hate it when we pretend to have light hearts in a serious time, but he's also kind enough to accept that's how we cope. "Right," he says, rising from the chair as Charlotte helps a shaking Asher stand. "Peacekeepers said we have limited time. You've still got more visitors."

"Popular guy," Charlotte says, smiling back at me as she leads Asher towards the door.

My heart leaps in my throat because I don't want them to go. It's like a dam has burst in my head, and all the fears I've been pushing back are flooding into my heart. What if this Hunger Games is real? What if they do want to kill kids? What if this is the last time I see my friends?

What if I'm going to d-die?

But before I can break down like Asher, I'm wrapped up in a hug I never thought I'd get.

"Look," Caleb mumbles, squeezing me tighter between his arms. "Whatever they plan on doing, just stay safe, all right? I don't trust those Capitol bastards."

"You and me both." I try to say it casually, but my breath catches in my throat. "Caleb, I—"

"Don't. Don't freak yourself out. Just take it one step at a time, all right? The Heath House way."

Yeah, okay, but there's a big different between worrying where your next beating will come from at the orphanage and freaking out about your maybe-impending doom. "But—"

"You're a douche, all right?"

"Ex-excuse me?"

"A giant douche, and you're only thirteen. Honestly, you're way too young to be cool, so stop trying, 'cause it's fucking irritating." He holds me tighter, his voice breaking slightly when he continues, "I don't know why I've kept you around all these years."

I can't help but smile. "Phew. I was worried you were going soft."

He pulls out of the hug and punches me on the shoulder. "You're the only soft one, Scrawny. Now, seriously, stay safe, 'cause I will come after you if you don't."

"Noted."

"Caleb?" It's Charlotte, peeking her head through the open door. "The Peacekeeper says we've got to go."

For half a second, I think he'll object, but he knows better than that. No one wants to get in trouble with the Peacekeepers.

So instead he simply ruffles my hair like he used to all the time and heads for the door. No goodbyes, 'cause this isn't goodbye. It can't be.

Charlotte steps out of the way to let Caleb pass, and after a wink and a wave, she leaves as well. It takes all of my willpower to resist the urge to run out there after them. I already tried running once today, when the Capitol escort called my name, and it didn't exactly work out. Have to try and salvage what's left of my cool reputation.

So when the door opens again, I try for my best smirk, only to falter as my eyes find the faces of a strange man and woman walking in. Undoubtedly the strangest couple I've seen in a long time—him with his Seam hair and eyes, her with her fine merchant's features. They don't stand close together, so maybe they aren't involved romantically, but then who the heck are they? I've never seen either of these people in my life.

No, wait . . . she's the woman who always drops by the orphanage. Never adopts a kid, just hangs around for a while before leaving. And him, he's that creepy stalker who watches me go to school.

Oh God, what are they here to do, kidnap me?

Actually, as messed up as that sounds, I wouldn't really mind.

For the longest time, neither of them says anything, just stands by the doorway staring at me with tears brimming in their eyes. I fidget nervously with the hem of my shirt, waiting for them to explain who they are and why they're here, but it seems like that's not going to happen anytime soon.

"Take a picture, it'll last longer," I snap, maybe a little ruder than I intended, but seriously, I could have spent this time with my friends. "Look, if you're just going to stare, maybe you could do that somewhere _else_—"

"Milo," the man says without warning. "Milo Heath."

"Uh, yeah. Look, unless you're here to get me out of this, I—"

"They kept the name," the man says, tears trickling down his cheeks. "The one you suggested. I hated it so much, but it. . . it fits."

Okay, what the _heck _is going on? "Look, your time is ticking," I say, bouncing up and down on the couch. I don't know why, but these people are making me nervous. "Either start making sense or get lost."

"Of course," the woman says, and now she's crying too. What is up these people? "M-maybe you recognise us from around town. My name is Penelope Marriet, and this is K-Keith Hartlow. We're . . . well, we're . . ."

She can't continue and breaks off, sobbing. It's the man, Keith, who finished. "Your parents. We're your p-p-parents, Milo."

Oh.

O-oh dear.

I thought this day couldn't get any worse. First my name is called for a death match, then I have to watch my friends suffer, then of course _I _am freaking out. And now . . . no. No, no, no. I can't deal with this. My heart has been twisted enough today, random strangers, so stop lying and please leave. Now.

I can't manage to say this, though, and they take it as their opportunity to tell me their story, which makes it worse because with each sentence, it gets harder and harder to believe they're messing with me.

Penelope Marriet and Keith Hartlow, from the merchant's sector and the Seam, respectively. Had a fling to defy society's laws, nothing new, nothing serious, until Penelope got pregnant. Suddenly things became too real, and they were just teenagers, what were they to do? They couldn't raise a kid. So off to the orphanage, but giving away the baby was no way to get rid of the memories. It was impossible to stay away, and while they'd split up, they still each found their own way to keep an eye on their kid. Because they couldn't leave him alone. They couldn't leave _me_ alone, and now they're here, ruining my life more by finally talking to me on the day I might be sent off to die.

Who does that? Who waits until their kid is doomed to pop in and say, "Oh, by the way, those parents you missed for thirteen years? Yeah, hi!" No, _no_. They passed the point of no return a _long_ time ago; they don't get to show up now and pretend everything's all right.

I want to yell at them, to interrupt their story and scream in their faces for toying with my emotions on what's already been a way-too-crazy day. But I also want to leap up and run to them, because aren't parents supposed to comfort their kids? I spied on some families today while waiting to sign-in, and, oh God, the longing I felt when a dad held his kid close or a mom said everything would be all right. I want that, more than anything. But not from these people, who thought it'd be okay to stay out of my life until now.

But I also don't have the heart to tell them to leave, because I can't help but want them here with me.

So I remain silent, unable to say anything. Even as they finish their story, even as they hug me and cry, I can't react. I don't know how.

I'm not sure if I should be happy when the Peacekeeper comes back and tells Penelope and Keith to leave. Part of me is thinking _thank goodness_ as they rise from the couch, though I still feel cold without their arms around me.

"Wait." Penelope has stopped midway to the door, her fingers fiddling madly with something at her wrist. "Hold on . . . he's allowed something from home, right? A token?"

The ever-exasperated Peacekeeper simply shrugs, which I guess Penelope takes as a go-ahead, because she hurries back to me and places something in my lap.

It's a bracelet. A bracelet from . . . from my m-mother.

"I know this is a lot to take in, and I know we've made some huge mistakes," she murmurs, kneeling down to look me in the eye. "But if . . . when, when you come back, we're going to make this right. I promise."

She smiles sadly and leans over to kiss me on the cheek. The world seems to go white just then, and when my senses return, I realise I'm alone in the Justice Building room once more. But this time, with a bracelet, and the lingering heat of a mother's kiss on my cheek.


	10. Aemilius: Play to Win

_**I Should Be Doing Homework But I Wanted to Write Fanfiction Instead - an autobiography by me.**_

_**Apologies for this chapter, it's a bit exposition-heavy. Del is a quiet, observation-y kind of guy, plus I wanted to fit in the recap of the reapings, since you're all being so patient waiting for me to bring the other tributes into this story.**_

_**Also, one thing I don't think I made clear with Adia's chapter, but it's not guaranteed her family, or Bolt's (Fiddle Kid), or anyone else's is dead. The Peacekeepers didn't specifically target their families, they just started wiping out random people to get their point across. The viewing stations they targeted did happen to be ones were a lot of kids' parents were, but no relations of Adia or Bolt have been confirmed dead. Sorry about that, I have a tendency to sort of vaguely imply things because I can then avoid enormous paragraphs of information, but sometimes it leaves readers super confused. If you've ever got questions on what I've written, please feel free to ask them in a review or a PM, and I will get back to you or post the answer in an A/N. A lot of these tributes have really complex backstories (such as Del, for example), and while that's wonderful, I can't get every detail in without giving you an info overload. Plus I've gotta keep a slight air of mystery to some of these guys. But seriously, if you're confused, let me know, and I will do my best to un-confuse you.**_

_**Also, this is long overdo, but thank you all so much for your support for this story! I never would have dreamed I'd get over 100 reviews after posting 9 chapters. You're all absolutely incredible - virtual cookies for all!**_

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><p><strong>Aemilius "Del" Lewellyn, 17, District 5<strong>

Now, I'm never one to brag, but I don't lie, either. I know I have a vast array of skills. You want me to solve a logic problem in the blink of an eye? Reroute wires in a generator to maximise the efficiency of the flowing electricity? Withstand verbal and physical pain at the hands of my enemies? Not a problem.

But small talk? Don't even ask. I'm smart enough to know where most people have charisma, I have an unhealthy dose of awkward.

Which makes the first few hours of the train ride incredibly uncomfortable, especially considering my district partner seems to operate in a similar fashion.

That was the term, wasn't it? District partner. Fellow tribute. The female representative of 5.

My adversary in this upcoming death match.

Eyes narrowing ever so slightly, I continue to observe the girl sitting across from me at the dining table; our Capitol escort vanished as soon as dinner finished to "escape the district scum". Whatever—he's of little consequence to my situation.

This girl, however, is a different story entirely. I'm no fool; I know the Capitol would never waste this much money and publicity on a bluff, which means they're actually serious about these Hunger Games. If I ever want to return to 5, or any of the other districts I once called home, I'm going to have to murder children just like me to do it.

A small part of me thinks I shouldn't be this accepting of the task at hand. _Small _being the key word here. I lived through the war; I've seen death. Hell, I've caused it.

It gets easier to ignore your conscience after that.

Right now, the only life I care about is my own, and is that really such a bad thing? After the war, you'd think even the biggest idiots would understand Panem is a kill-or-be-killed world. I don't make the rules of survival, I simply play the game, and play to win at that.

Noble? Of course not.

Smart? Undeniably so.

It's my turn now, and I'll use all the time I've got to take the steps I need. Starting with the evaluation of my so-called "partner".

She's a simple-looking girl, though I suppose the curly, red hair is somewhat unique. It's about the same length as mine, reaching just past her shoulders, so it won't distract or impede her in any way. Pale skin and freckles indicates she likely burns in the sun easily, but then again, so do I, and who even knows if that will affect us. Though our Capitol escort explained the rules of the Hunger Games thoroughly during the reapings, he had no information to share on exactly _where _this death match would take place.

"Searching for my weaknesses already? Shame on you for jumping on this Hunger Games bandwagon so quickly."

My neutral expression shifts for a moment, genuinely surprised as my partner lifts her eyes from the silly Capitol magazine she was idly perusing. Despite the teasing smirk playing on her lips, I can see a spark of sharp intelligence in her eyes.

Perhaps I'm not dealing with a run-of-the-mill teenager here.

"Honestly, you could at least be more subtle about it," she continues, laying her palms flat on the table. "Oh, and since you seem so interested, the shaking hands? Not a permanent defect. Just a bit of nerves."

I shrug. "Still a weakness."

"Perhaps. Or perhaps it's weaker still to show no fear. Not getting cocky, are you?"

"Of course not. I don't have enough information about our current situation to warrant any sort of confidence, and I would certainly never overestimate my skills."

She laughs then, confusing me even more. Is this some social cue I've missed? Damn it, this is why I hate talking.

"Oh man." She snorts into her hand. "Jeez, you're the real deal, huh? I mean, I'd heard about the socially awkward genius from just about every district under the sun, but to actually meet you . . . anyone ever told you you sound kind of like a robot?"

"On occasion. And I've only ever been to five districts. Don't let rumours obscure the facts."

"Wouldn't dream of it." She leans forward, her interest peaked. "Still, must have been a hell of a time. I've been stuck in Five my whole life. You were from, what, Two originally? Yeah, had to be Two, with a name like yours. Seriously, Aemilius? Please, tell me you have a nickname."

"Del," I say before I can stop myself. Instantly, I regret it. Sharing trivial facts is hardly dangerous, but any information on my personal life could be used against me.

My district partner frowns. "How do you get 'Del' from 'Aemilius'?"

I can't avoid the question, not without looking suspicious. "Quidel is my middle name," I explain, careful to maintain my stoic expression. "It comes from there."

No need to explain the fact that my mother's family always used the nickname because they were originally from 6 and couldn't get the hang of 2 names either. No need for her to know I haven't been called Del in ages, since they're all either dead or far, far away now.

"Right. Well then, Del, feel free to call me Sam. Or Sammy. Or Samalana-banana." She makes a face. "My sister thought she was hilarious with that one."

"I won't be using any of those."

"Ugh, but Samantha just sounds so formal . . . oh." She stops short, analysing my face carefully, and I curse myself for whatever minute expression I might be showing. This girl is smarter than she lets on. "You're not going to call me anything."

Well, no point in lying. "No."

"What, just going to use 'girl'? Will that really make it easier to kill me?"

"In my experience, killing strangers is a lot easier than killing acquaintances."

"And you've had a lot of experience?"

"Have you?"

She laughs again. "Slamming the ball neatly back into my court. Well done. And no, just for your information, I haven't. My family stayed neutral during the war. We all knew the Capitol was going to win anyways, so why fight an impossible battle?"

Perhaps it would be best not to mention I and a number of my family members were involved in the rebellion.

"But, look," Samantha—the girl says, leaning back in her chair. "We could sit here all night, playing mind games and bouncing observations back and forth, but we're both smart enough to never let the other get anywhere."

"Are we?"

She smiles. "Del, dear, don't even question my intelligence."

So she has an ego. Noted. Though from what I've seen, she also has the skills to back up her arrogance. Also noted.

"So," she continues, "Instead of stumbling around getting nowhere with each other, why don't we do something more productive?"

"What do you have in mind?"

She flips her magazine up for me to see. Amid the glossy images of Capitol actors in ridiculous poses, a large TV guide spans the page.

"They're showing a recap of all the reapings on channel 7 in five minutes. Do remember I am only one of your many enemies in this, Del, as you are mine. Wouldn't you like to see the others?"

Loathe though I am to admit it when faced with that patronising smirk, I would. My district partner is right; whether one of us is more intelligent or not, neither of us are stupid enough to fall prey to the other. Why not analyse the others, scope out the rest of these tributes?

I hope they're not all as perceptive as the girl across from me. Otherwise things may get very difficult.

But, thankfully, as my partner and I move to the living car and turn the TV on, we're rewarded with our first idiot of the night. No sooner have we settled ourselves onto the couch then the announcers finish their little introduction and cut to what I presume is the main square of District 1, where the boys are reaped first and someone . . . volunteers.

"What?" Even Samantha—my district partner can't hide her surprise as a boy with a black eye and shaky legs stumbles his way to the stage. "What the hell? I just—what?"

"Agreed."

Why would someone volunteer for this? They do know this is a fight to the _death_, right? Sure, I can see how the rewards of riches and fame might appeal to poor, weak-hearted teenagers with overinflated egos, but still. _Death_. How is that not clear?

"Okay, so safe to say we're the smartest kids in this competition," Samantha—damn it—says as the escort reaps the female tribute.

"We've only seen the one boy. Don't be so quick to make assumptions."

Indeed, we both watch as the reaped girl is found amongst the seventeen-year-olds and shoved towards the stage. Though mind-numbing shock is just about the only emotion registering on her face, as is only normal, I can see the same spark of deadly intelligence in her eyes as I did in Samantha's.

This is quickly becoming more complicated than I'd hoped.

Thankfully District 2 seems more average, at least in the brains department. My heart leaps seeing the familiar Justice Building and surrounding towns as first a twelve-year-old, then some girl who refuses to accept her fate because she's "not a rebel" is picked.

I have to admit, that is interesting. Most people figured these Games were only a punishment for rebels and kids of rebels, a fact only reinforced when I was reaped. But Samantha's neutrality in the war, plus this 2 girl . . . just what is the Capitol playing at, exactly?

It's a little disconcerting, to be honest. I'd figured they'd keep up this Hunger Games until all the rebellious kids were gone and dead, but if they're intent on taking average teens as well . . . what does that mean for Panem's future?

"Ugh."

The groan of disgust pulls me from my thoughts, drawing me back to the District 3 reapings, which Samantha is watching with poorly-concealed revulsion.

"What?"

"Just look at them," she says, gesturing to the screen, where onstage stand the two tributes surrounded by Peacekeepers. The girl is fighting tooth and nail, screaming profanities, but the boy is silent and tearful. "These are the competitors from Three. Jeez, I bet my pinky finger has a higher IQ than both kids combined."

"I take it you have some sort of grudge against Three?" From what I'd seen of 5, it seemed to be a common mentality.

"Of course. Everyone worships them as the smartest district, but again, _look _at them. Nothing but a bunch of rebellious idiots _we_ got lumped in with. I'll say it again: ugh."

Her displeasure doesn't last long, however. The cocky smirk and laugh are back by the time the scene switches to 4, where a twelve-year-old girl was reaped and someone volunteers.

"Oh my God, honestly? What is with these suicidal idiots?"

"I have absolutely no idea." Words I hate to say, but it's true. What could possibly motivate someone to willingly participate in these Games?

The boy is not without his share of surprises either, despite the fact that he's reaped.

"Arc Malvina," Samantha repeats as the shocked boy stumbles his way to the stage. "Malvina. Didn't we just hear that name?"

Indeed—Lizzy Malvina was the twelve-year-old picked before the older girl volunteered. Huh. Clearly the Capitol wants someone in their family for the arena. Wonder what they did.

I avert my eyes as our reapings come on—I've never been able to stand seeing myself on TV—but Samantha watches them in full, her expression strangely vulnerable.

"That's my sister crying," she whispers as, onscreen, her name is called and a wail erupts over the crowd. "My parents too. They couldn't believe I was picked."

I know. They came to see me during our goodbye sessions. Tears in their eyes, despair in their expressions, but they hadn't shouted, and they hadn't begged. I'd figured the purpose of their visit was to convince me to help they're daughter, and yet all they said was they were sorry for my situation and they'd hoped I would stay safe.

I'd had no words. These people, they had known my safety would mean their daughter's downfall, right? How could they console me with that thought in their minds?

I wonder, does Samantha know of her family's visit?

Thankfully, the awkward melancholy surrounding my district partner disappears as the reapings for 6 comes on. Back is the incredulous laughter and the intelligent sense of superiority as a girl is reaped, and her brother volunteers to protect her, only to have another girl take her place.

Well then.

"Still not sure if we're the smartest of this batch?" Samantha asks with a smirk.

"We are only halfway through." Though I must admit, with the exception of that 1 girl, it is looking more and more likely.

The 7s are nothing special, to me, at least, but Samantha looks up as the boy is reaped.

"I know him."

"What? I thought you'd never been out of Five."

"I thought you were supposed to be smart, Del. Volt Tron? Pretty obviously a Five name."

"So 'Samantha' is what, then? Don't talk to me about naming conventions—your district is far too weird."

"Screw you. My parents like old-fashioned names." She crosses her arms and turns back to the TV. "Anyways, I'm telling you, he's from Five. We used to be in the same classes before the war. Arrogant dick, if I recall. Everyone thought him and his family were dead."

"Why?"

"Apparently they were involved in a plot to blow up the mayor's house for his support to the Capitol. Never happened, of course. The Peacekeepers invaded and stopped the rebels in their tracks. The Trons were never heard from again. I guess they hopped districts."

Interesting—I file the information away for later. Never know when it might come in handy.

I wonder if Samantha is aware of how much help she's giving me.

The 8 girl seems to be another rebel, judging by the way her initial shock morphs into contempt after her name is called. Her partner, however, is booed as he makes his way to the stage. Hmm, definitely a story behind that one. Judging by his neatly brushed hair and his toned but well-fed frame, he's from a rich family that wasn't affected by the war. Still, I doubt class differences and jealousy is the sole reason behind the crowd's reaction.

9 yields a homely, bucktoothed thirteen-year-old and a sly, mischievous eighteen-year-old, both who react with typical expressions of shock, but manage to control their emotions soon after. Impressive, especially for the young girl. Though she has to be pushed out of her section to get going, I make a mental note that she's stronger than her age suggests.

District 10 is where things get . . . interesting. The girl is nothing special, another kid on the verge of tears, but the boy . . .

"Is that a _strait jacket_?" Samantha asks, eyes wide as Riley Byron is found at the edge of the seventeen-year-old pen, surrounded by a group of Peacekeepers.

"I-I think so." I curse myself for showing weakness, but it's impossible to keep my voice from wavering as the 10 boy glares directly into the camera. Those are the eyes of someone not right in the head. Not to mention he's _massive_. I'm pretty sure one of his hands could wrap completely around my neck.

_Shit_. I was so intent on watching for opponents whose intelligence rivals my own, I'd forgotten the physical powerhouses that were possibilities in these Games. Sure, brains wins over brawn every time, but that doesn't change the fact that I wouldn't poke that boy with a twelve-foot pole. He'd probably run me through with it.

Strangling, being skewered—why do gruesome images of my death keep playing on repeat in my head?

The crazies don't stop at 11, though fortunately neither tribute is nearly as intimidating as Riley. Katerina Mossiac is a tall but lean fourteen-year-old who starts screaming the moment her name is called. An understandable reaction considering the circumstances, but still, there's an added hysterical edge to it that makes me think the girl isn't entirely all there.

The boy is more difficult to figure out. His expression is blank, but as the camera zooms in, it becomes clear he's breathing heavily, and there's a panicked, pained look in his eyes that he can't conceal. At his sides, his hands are twitching uncontrollably.

"I don't know about you," Samantha says as Kale Hackberry steps towards the stage, "But I think there's something up with him. Thoughts?"

I shrug; no need to help her, even if she isn't so guarded with her thoughts. "I'm not sure. What are you thinking?"

"Dunno. Could be anywhere from ADHD to kleptomania to pyromania. I've heard the upper districts breed all sorts of crazies."

No doubt they say the same about places such as 5, where cold-hearted and emotionally-retarded nerds are the standard mold for citizens. But I digress.

Onscreen, the girl from 12's name is called, but she doesn't move, even after the camera finds her in the crowd. Only when a kid next to her gently places a hand on her shoulder does she jerk away with a loud cry of, "I can do it myself!"

The fourteen-year-olds move away as she tries to stumble out of the section, but something's not right. She moves so hesitantly for someone so determined, her hands out in front of her, her face angry but her steps slow. The camera closes in on her face, revealing the terrified tears behind the rage.

It hits me and Samantha as soon as we see her clouded, grey eyes.

"Blind," Samantha says slowly. "She's blind."

"She is."

Both of us sit in silence for a bit, and I wonder if my partner's line of thinking is just as bad as mine. Because the thoughts that cross my head are not _oh, poor girl _or _this is so unfair for her. _All I can think is, _Good. She'll be easy to get out of the way._

Later, I'll feel bad about my ruthlessness. At the moment, however, I can't afford to.

The boy reaped is only a year younger than Tierza. He remains frozen in place, just as she did, until the Peacekeepers start to move towards him. Then he takes off, sprinting like a madman out of his section and towards one of the side streets off of the square.

Frankly, I'm surprised he's the only one who tried to run. Why were the rest of us so willing to accept our fate? Why was I content to walk to my death like a good little boy instead of fighting back?

I suppose because I know that war was long since lost. My fate was sealed no matter what I did, a fact made only more clear as the running thirteen-year-old is caught by the Peacekeepers and dragged to the stage.

There's nothing any of us can do to escape this. We can try to avoid it, we can ignore it, we can deny it, but sooner or later, the Hunger Games will come.


	11. Jeanette: The Sun Will Come Out

_**Just throwing this out here, another possible theme song for Jeanette is "Tomorrow" from Annie.**_

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><p><strong>Jeanette Walters, 13, District 9<strong>

I don't even realise I'm going about my normal morning routine until I find myself sitting in the breakfast car, box of cereal in one hand, hot chocolate in the other, facing the window and watching the sun rise.

There's something comforting in that. Sure, the food may be different, the chair may be cozier, but the sky is turning the same masterpiece of colours I see every morning. Such a sight has always reassured me, whether it was my first sunrise in 1, or in 9, or on this Capitol train. It lets me know that, no matter how much my life has changed, the world is still the same, and it will continue to be the same. I am merely one tiny cog in an endless machine.

A feeling of peace washes over me, and I resolve not to cry today. I did last night, for hours on end, until somehow I fell asleep on my tear-stained pillow. Understandable, of course, but I can't put myself through that again. It made me feel awful, and I don't like feeling awful. I want to be happy, even if that's nearly impossible for my situation.

No, I shouldn't think like that. Nothing's impossible. I just have to remember my mother's last words to me. "Believe," she'd said, "Believe this will all work out."

I do, now. Whether it's because the Capitol's not serious about the Hunger Games, or because we'll be rescued by rebels beforehand, somehow, things will turn out for the best. The only thing that's impossible to imagine is a future where me and twenty-three other kids are thrown into an arena and forced to kill each other.

Things will work out. No matter what happens, there will always be another sunrise tomorrow.

I keep watching the window long after the sun leaves the horizon. My escort Candi said we'd be arriving in the Capitol at some point this morning, and as nervous as I may be, I also can't contain my excitement at finally seeing Panem's wealthiest and prettiest city. It appears I'm the only eager one, however. Maybe Candi and Stanley just aren't morning people.

As if on cue, the door to the breakfast car slides open, and in stumbles my district partner. He's in nothing but a pair of PJ pants, hair a rat's nest and grey eyes clouded with sleep. I don't think he even sees me; he staggers right by, heading straight for the coffee pot.

I can't help but smile as he blindly fills the nearest mug. It reminds me so much of my older sister; Lauren's only sixteen, but she has the exact same coffee habits. Lots of people drink it in 9, considering they grow the beans as well as normal grain, and while it's nowhere near the calibre of this finely-ground, flavoured Capitol stuff, it's certainly strong enough to get people hooked.

Stanley finishes pouring and raises the mug to his lips, not seeming to care it's steaming hot. He takes a big gulp, and I giggle out loud at the long sigh he lets out after swallowing.

Now apparently alert enough to register my presence, he turns to face me and leans back against the table.

"Hey, Shortstuff. You're up early."

I set down my hot chocolate and cereal to cross my arms, though I'm still grinning. "I'm 5'10". You're just abnormally tall."

"Thirteen and 5'10" and _I'm _the one who's abnormal?" He laughs and ducks as I chuck a piece of cereal his way. "All right, all right. What name would you prefer? Giraffe?"

"How about Sauroposeidon?"

"Beg pardon?"

"Tallest dinosaur ever. Way taller than giraffes. Do you research."

He puts up his hands in mock surrender. "Well, _excuse_ me. I forgot I was dealing with a nerd from Three."

"I was one when my family left Three."

"Sadly, you are still a nerd at heart."

"So what does that make you at heart? A grain enthusiast?"

He holds up his mug and grins. "A coffee addict."

"Just make sure you leave some for Candi. She didn't strike me as a morning person."

"Oh God, can you imagine? She was a tyrant last night, and that was her wide awake."

He makes a face, and I nod sympathetically. Sure, Candi insulted my appearance on more than one occasion, but Stanley couldn't do a thing without earning a lecture from her. _You're supposed to pull the chairs out for the ladies first! That's the dessert fork, don't touch it now! How DARE you put your feet on the table!_

"Well," I say, grinning slyly at Stanley. "I guess she's not as _sweet_ as her name suggests."

I crack up laughing, more because of his expression than my horrendous joke.

"And just when I thought you were cool." He groans, putting a hand to his forehead. "Nope, that's it. Sorry, kid, but I'm going to have to kill you now."

The joke falls flat when he freezes, realising what he's just said. For a moment, an expression flashes over his face, one I've only seen one other time since I met him. It's the same look he wore after he got over the shock of being reaped. Shrewd, calculating—the face of a manipulator trying to decide if he screwed up and what his next move should be.

Lauren always calls me naïve, but I don't think I am, at least where Stanley is concerned. I get that this light-hearted, mischievous jokester is only one part of his personality. For all his country-bumpkin mannerisms, he's pretty smart. He thinks the Hunger Games are really going to happen, so he's trying to make friends with me.

I'd like to think this is so I don't kill him. Not so my guard is low enough for him to kill me.

But I also get that there's more to him than he thinks. When Candi called me a frizzy-haired beaver last night, Stanley jumped to my defence, a reaction I think was a reflex, not a carefully-calculated act of friendship. Deep down, past the happy-go-lucky exterior and the layers of cool, selfish interior, he cares. Maybe not enough to put his life on the line for me, but why should that be the standard for selflessness? I have an older sister who could have volunteered for me, kind of like what that boy from 6 did, but she didn't. Not because she doesn't love me, but because humans are naturally self-preserving. I get that.

But I've always been an anomaly, no matter where we lived. Jeanette Walters, with her knobbly knees and fiery hair, not pretty enough for 1. Jeanette Walters, with her dreamy attitude and wild imagination, not normal enough for 9.

So, Jeanette Walters, with her childish naiveté and over-the-top optimism, not selfish enough for the Hunger Games?

_You won't have to find out. It's not going to happen. Just remember what Mom said. Believe everything will turn out for the best._

"Oi, brats!"

Stanley jumps, spilling coffee all over his chair as the car door slides open once more to admit our escort.

My district partner utters some colourful swear words, and even I can't help but gasp. Candi looks . . . um, well, I don't mean to be rude, but kind of like she's walked straight out of a horror movie. Her pitch black hair hangs dank and damp down her back, so different from the curly updo she wore yesterday. Without makeup, her eyes and lips seem so much smaller, and her face is covered in this bright red cream that sort of looks like blood smeared across her cheeks.

I've lived in three different districts during my life, two that I can remember, and yes, fashion and style definitely varied from 1 to 9. But the Capitol, they're on a whole different level.

"Holy fuck," Stanley grumbles. Looks like Candi's startling appearance made him spill the rest of his coffee. "What the hell are you trying to do, give us heart attacks?"

"If only I could," she snaps back. "And if that was the last cup of coffee, I swear, I don't care what the rules of the Games are, you won't make it to that arena alive."

"Bitch."

"Street rat."

"Slut."

"Vermin."

So, round two has begun; they were doing this last night as well. I should help Stanley, especially since he defended me last night, but I just don't know what to say. Besides, Candi's rage is kind of warranted, I suppose. After all, the districts did put the Capitol through hell, and vice versa.

The thing people don't seem to get, though, is if they keep being mean in response to the other side's meanness, no one will ever get anywhere.

It's pointless to try and reason with them when they're like this, though. So I guess I'll just keep twiddling my thumbs until they run out of insults.

Their vocabularies are much more extensive this time—something tells me they were both lying awake last night preparing for this—but eventually, Candi finishes with, "Good-for-nothing criminal urchin infatuated with a girl who couldn't care less."

I'd been trying not to pay attention, but I suck in a sharp breath at that. The look on Stanley's face . . . Candi crossed a line.

He has to take a moment to compose himself. Then, in a deadly-quiet voice, he says, "Excuse me? First of all, how the _fuck_ do you—?"

"There are cameras all over the Justice Building, obviously. What did you think I was doing while you crybabies were saying your goodbyes?"

I'd seen Stanley mad last night when Candi was yelling about his table manners. But that, that was nothing compared to how he looks now. This is pure fury etched into every line of his face. He may just be a scrawny guy in nothing but pajama bottoms, but right now, I'm more than a little frightened.

Candi, however, is still wearing her humourless smirk. "Careful," she chides. "Don't want to get in trouble for hurting me now, do you? I know the rules say you have to go into that arena alive, but as for the requirements besides a beating heart, well, the rules are a little less clear there. And I know a number of Peacekeepers with a lot of pent-up rage and a grudge against the districts. You want to give them a reason to punish you?"

Her words only seem to anger him more, and for a second, I'm scared he actually will attack her. Already, I'm standing to interfere—I don't want him to get hurt.

But before I can say anything, he storms over to Candi, getting right in her face, and snarls, "I am _not _infatuated. It's just sex. So shut the fuck up."

He storms right past her and out the door after that, though not fast enough to escape her patronising, "Sure it is, honey."

Our bedrooms are a few cars away from the one where we dine, but I swear I can hear Stanley's door slam shut.

Well, that was . . . I don't even know, I just feel uncomfortable and sad and a million other things right now. Poor Stanley.

However, I realise I may be in even more immediate danger as Candi turns her cruel gaze on me._ Please don't say anything mean, please don't say anything mean. _I didn't want to cry today. I wanted to be happy.

I guess that dream's already gone out the window.

Fortunately, Candi seems to have taken all her immediate rage at the districts out on Stanley, and all she barks at me is, "We'll be arriving soon. Get out of your damn PJs and put something presentable on."

I nod and immediately sprint off towards my bedroom, nightgown flapping wildly in my haste to escape Candi's glare. Oh man, how are we going to spend the rest of the week with her? I don't like to use the word "hate", even for the worst of people, but . . . well, I'd really rather not spend any more time around Candi than I have to. Hopefully this week will go by fast.

_And then the Hunger Games will begin. You really want that to come sooner?_

"Not going to happen," I mumble to myself, entering the bedrooms car. "Believe it will all work out."

Mine and Stanley's rooms are in the same car, our doors directly across from each other. I debate checking on him to see how he's doing, but from the sounds I can hear through the wall, I think he's throwing stuff. Maybe I should leave him be for now.

I enter my room and automatically breathe a sigh of relief, knowing this is my territory and Candi is unlikely to stray here, unless provoked. Which means I should probably do as she says and get dressed.

My wardrobe is enormous, filled with Capitol clothes that are, creepily, all my size. It was a small comfort to me last night, when I was picking out my frilly and flowery nightgown. I'd never worn anything so beautiful, especially not for my PJs. You have to look for the little miracles, especially in the darkest of situations—another one of my mother's mottos.

However, none of the elegant dresses catch my eye today, even if I'd normally be overjoyed with the chance to try them on. Instead, I make straight for my night table, on which lies my dress from the reapings, carefully folded with the purple sash piled on top.

I pull off the nightgown and wriggle into my dress without a second thought. The material is a lot scratchier than anything from the Capitol, and the white material has yellowed over the years, but I love it because it smells like _home._ Like wood fires and weak coffee, burnt cookies and Dad's beer, the dress is everything I want with me right now.

But instead, all I have with me is this mass of polka-dotted material with a purple sash and my mother's old high heels.

_Don't cry. Not today. You said you didn't want to feel bad anymore._

Yes, I did. But that doesn't stop the tears from rolling down my cheeks as I remember putting this dress on yesterday, how Mom did up the buttons at the back and Lauren tied my sash while my youngest sister, Eileen, wouldn't stop poking all the polka-dots. Suddenly, I have no desire to see the Capitol anymore, no matter how beautiful it's rumoured to be.

I just want to go home.


	12. Reese: Don't Lose Heart

_**Enormous thanks to Xx La Fille En Feu xX for the chariot costumes, because I am horrendous when it comes to making up stuff like that and describing things in general. So, thank you! You're awesome!**_

_**Didn't realize this earlier, but with that last chapter, we're 1/3 of the way through the tributes. Cool! Hopefully things aren't moving to slowly for you guys - if the chapters feel long, feel free to let me know!**_

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><p><strong>Reese Durnham, 18, District 10<strong>

I shouldn't be happy to be here. Not in the Capitol, the home of those who tortured the districts so much, who tore me from my family so I could be a pawn in their game.

Nevertheless, I do breathe a small sigh of relief as Riley and I are steered towards two separate rooms in what our escort called the Remake Centre. My district partner may be my age, but I've never seen him before in my life, and the Peacekeepers who accompany him everywhere gave me a few ideas as to why. Apparently he's been in a mental asylum since he was eleven, after he burned down the orphanage he lived in as a child.

Needless to say, I didn't sleep on the train until I'd barricaded my bedroom door shut. I've dealt with sadistic psychos before; I know how to defend myself.

A skill I might soon be putting to use again. No sooner do the Peacekeepers shove me roughly through an open door than I am set upon by three multicolored men who surround me much as vultures would a corpse.

"This is her, then?"

"She's shorter than she seemed on TV."

"Just look at that hideous turtleneck! Can district people not even dress themselves properly?"

"At least her face seems relatively clean."

"But her hair's so short! We'll never be able to do anything with it."

"And she's so scrawny. The whole point of this outfit was to flatter her curves, but she doesn't have _any_."

I'm so overwhelmed by the colours and ridiculous accents that I can't register what's going on. The moment someone's hand touches my butt, however, I snap out of my daze.

_How _dare_ they._

"See that? Not curvy at all. I just—AH!"

Without thinking, I whirl around and snatch the still-outstretched hand. The man it belongs to squeals like a child as I snarl, "_Don't_ touch me."

"Assault, assault! Someone get the Peacekeepers!"

"That won't be necessary."

The screaming man shuts up, as do his frantic companions when they hear the new speaker. We all turn our heads towards the voice to find another man leaning against the door. He looks just as ridiculous as the others with his dark blue skin and long, braided hair, but there's an intelligence in his gaze that I wouldn't have thought possible for these ditzy people.

His blue eyes remain focused on me, roaming up and down the length of my body. Unconsciously, my free hand tightens into a fist. Somehow, this feels even worse than when the other three were circling me, because this man feels like he knows exactly what he's doing and what he's looking at, and it makes me _sick. _My eyes are up here, you Capitol ass.

As if he can read my thoughts, his gaze rises until it locks with mine. For a moment, we have a mini stare-down, then the man shrugs lazily and pushes himself off the wall.

"Percus, I did tell you to be careful when handling the district children. Who knows what the savages are like. And as for you, Ms. Durnham, I'd advise you let go of my colleague. We wouldn't want to get the Peacekeepers involved."

Every nerve in my body is screaming to punch these smug Capitolites in the face, but somehow, common sense holds me back. I have to pick my battles, and as much as I hate it, fighting with these men will inevitably result in me being thrown to the mercy of the Peacekeepers. I saw enough of their brutality when Riley picked a fight with them on the train to know how undesirable that scenario is.

Reluctantly, I release the Capitolite's wrist and cross my arms. I may not go looking for trouble, but that doesn't mean I'm going to cooperate with these Capitol bastards.

"There, now, that wasn't so hard, was it?" The smiling man who seems to be in charge pats his colleague, Percus, on the shoulder before turning his grin on me. "It seems we've gotten off on the wrong foot, so let's try again, shall we? First off, my name is Chrit Puldos. Over here we have Gem and Inai Connatu, and, of course, Percus Amare, who you're already a bit familiar with."

Indeed—he's still rubbing his wrist from where I grabbed it.

"Please calm yourself, Ms. Durnham," Chrit says as my glare makes Percus squeak again. "Do remember we are here to help you."

"_Really_? Are you secretly rebels here to get me and the others out of the Capitol?"

"Good heavens, of course not."

"Then how exactly are you 'helping' me?"

"By giving you the best first impression we can with the audience, of course!" He twiddles his fingers dramatically as, all around me, the other men do the same. Good Lord, I think they've rehearsed this. "Your escort did explain to you the concept of the chariot rides, yes?"

Did he ever. Exere was so determined to do his job properly, he gave Riley and I each a full folder detailing the events leading up to the Hunger Games. Of course, Riley promptly tore his in two, but I kept mine to peruse when I couldn't sleep at night. Always good to have as much information as I can get, especially considering the severity of losing this competition.

Yes, the Hunger Games sound horrible, but I have no trouble believing the Capitol will go through with them. I've seen enough of the cruelty of humanity to know a children's death match is hardly unthinkable.

Still, I don't quite understand the point of the events beforehand. A parade? Interviews? Why bother trying to make an audience like us when we're almost all going to die anyways?

Perhaps Chrit sees the confusion on my face, for he continues, "Don't understand? Ah, too eager to get to the fighting, I suppose. I was told district people are horribly violent."

"That's not—"

"The point of these pre-Games events," Chrit says over me. "Is to make an impression with the audience. Supposedly it'll help you get sponsors, blah, blah, all that boring strategy, but there's so much more than that! What many people don't seem to realise is that the purpose of the Hunger Games is twofold. Everyone's so hung up on this 'punishment for the districts' business, but they're forgetting the most important part! Why call it a game if it's not also meant to entertain? This is classic TV, I tell you, just like any other show, and that's why we need to spend time getting to know you all before you, you know, are brutally murdered. The audience wants to love you, laugh with you, cry with you, so when you die, we _feel _something. It's called catharsis, my dear. I mean, who would ever watch a show where they don't care about the characters?"

I thought my father was a bad person. I thought being treated like a slave was the worst fate for someone to endure. But, as they always do, the Capitol has skyrocketed beyond my expectations of awfulness.

We're not even _real _to them. They're treating us like figments of fiction, things to feel happy and sad for without truly worrying about our fate because we're not 'actual people'. Is that what these Hunger Games are to them? Just another TV show, like those awful Capitol soaps I sometimes heard rich girls at my school discussing? Are Capitolites really so deplorable they can forget we're human beings just like them?

"Now," Chrit says, clapping his hands together. At once, the other three men snap to attention. "We've got a lot of work to do, everyone, so hop to. Percus, get waxing strips, and lots of them. I want her legs as smooth as a baby's bottom. Gem, Inai, go handle the bodysuit modifications—padding, padding, padding. As for you, Ms. Durnham, if you would be so kind as to step over here and remove your clothes—"

"_What_?"

I stumble away from Chrit's outstretched hand, glaring incredulously at him. My crossed arms tighten even more across my chest. "You have _got _to be joking."

Chrit lets out a long sigh, as though _he's _the victim here. "No, Ms. Durnham, I am not. Don't act so shocked—did you honestly not see this coming? How are we supposed to prepare you if you stay in that ghastly outfit?"

All right, maybe I'll admit the pants are a bit heavy, and the turtleneck giving the back of my neck a dreadful itch, but I can't take them off. I _won't_. And not just because of these pervy Capitolites. Some sights are best to stay hidden.

"Work around it. I'm not stripping in front of _you_."

"If it makes you feel any better, none of us swing your way. Well, except Percus, but he's—"

"Happily married to the most beautiful woman in the entire world," Percus says dreamily, returning to Chrit's side and three boxes of wrapping strips at his feet. "Oh, my darling Kari, it's been only hours but I already miss the sweet smell of—"

"Yes, yes, all right, get back to work." Chrit rolls his eyes and shoves him away. "Thinks he's a bloody poet. Anyways, there you have it, Ms. Durnham—none of us are remotely interested. Feel better?"

"Of course not!"

"Is it low self-esteem? Come, my dear, you're from the districts, we're expecting you to be ugly. You couldn't possibly disappoint our expectations when they're already at rock bottom."

There's that desire to punch him again. I wonder how long common sense can keep it back.

"Look." I grit my teeth and glare at Chrit. "I don't care what you do or what you say. I'm. Not. Stripping."

"Ugh, fine. What's that old saying? If the stubborn ass isn't moved by the carrot—"

"Hey—!"

"—then the stick will serve just as well." Chrit narrows his eyes and meets my gaze. "Shall I call the Peacekeepers in? I can guarantee they'll be a lot rougher in disrobing you. They're also likely to be more . . . lecherous."

I try to maintain my glare, but inside, I can feel my defiance crumbling. He's got me. No matter how determined I am, the Capitol will always outplay me. It's just like back home; my strength, my spirit, they mean _nothing _in the face of a more brutal opponent. I'll never win, unless I sink as low as those I fight.

_No. You swore you would never be like him._

"Fine." Chrit's eyes widen in surprise as I continue, "_Fine. _But I have one condition."

"My dear, you're from the districts, your opinion doesn't—"

"You don't say anything," I snap. "I strip, and you do your job _silently. _No comments, no matter what."

"If you're worried about your tiny breasts, we can already tell and we honestly don't—"

"Just shut up and give me this, all right?" I hate the weariness in my tone, the way my words sound like a beg, but that's the truth, isn't it? Not ten minutes I've been here, and the Capitol has already beaten me.

I brace myself for another one of Chrit's smartass remarks/insults, but surprisingly, after a moment of observing me from head to toe once more, he shrugs.

"Fine. Not like we have much to say to you anyways."

I don't realise I'd been hoping for more arguing until he stares at me expectantly. This is it. After years of putting on a tough persona supported by the clothing that covers me, the Capitol is going to strip all that away. It's not enough for them to separate me from my home, my family, my friends—they have to separate me from my defences as well, leaving me at my most vulnerable.

We're not even at the killing part yet, and already I wish a hole would open in the floor and swallow me up.

None does, of course, giving me no escape from Chrit's orders. Tears are pricking my eyes and a lump is growing in my throat, but I force myself not to cry. I'll only seem weaker.

_Are you not weak already, for complying with these Capitolites?_

But there's nothing I can do.

So, reluctantly, I begin to take the turtleneck off. The process is slow at first, then I realise putting it off is only increasing the chances of me breaking down. Best not to think about it, just do it fast, like ripping off a Band-Aid.

So I do, biting my lip when I see Chrit's eyes widen. Worse, though, is Percus's gasp as he returns with more boxes of waxing strips.

"Wh-what? How?" He drops the boxes and rushes to my side, eyes strangely shocked and sympathetic for a cold-hearted Capitolite. "Who did this to you?"

Who knows which scar he's talking about. Is it the long one up my back? The jagged one on my chest? The small but deep one on my shoulder?

Doesn't really matter, I suppose. The answer is always the same.

But I can't tell them. I can't tell anyone, or I'll break down, and that's not an option. No one will ever see me weak.

So I blink furiously to disperse the tears in my eyes and set my face in a mask of stony indifference, an expression I've practiced to perfection over the years. I'll be fine—at least, I would be if these damn Capitolites stopped staring at me with such pity in their eyes. _Hello, you've brought me here to _die_. You don't get to be sympathetic!_

But the lump in my throat won't budge, so I can't snap at them. All I can do is hope they won't ask too many questions.

"Who could do such a thing? Look at all these horrible scars—this is awful! What happened to you? Does it hurt? Should we get an ice pack? Good God, what _happened_?"

So much for that.

"Percus, stop." Chrit puts a hand on the frantic man's shoulder, silencing his questions with a look. "We don't have time for this. Get to the table and prepare to start waxing."

"But—"

"_Now._"

Percus gulps and nods, gathering up his boxes and bringing them to the long, metal table on the opposite side of the room. The twins, working with some fabric in the corner, quickly stop whispering amongst themselves as they too receive a glare from their boss.

With a sigh, Chrit turns back to me, eyes firmly fixed on my face, not any of the scars that decorate my body. "Ms. Durnham, please follow Percus, and get rid of the rest of your clothes. We have a lot of work to do, and a very short amount of time to do it."

Is this . . . gratitude I'm feeling? No, it can't be, not towards these horrible people.

And yet, Chrit's ignorance of my scars has made them so much easier for me to bear. Too often I've been faced with sympathetic people who expect me to cry for them, and knowing they're thinking that makes the tears come all the quicker. But that's not how I want to deal with things; I don't want to moan and whine, I want to forget the bad ever happened and move on with my life. I've been told this isn't a healthy approach to dealing with my issues, but you know what, they're _my _issues. I can ignore them if I want.

Taking the rest of my clothes off is easier after that, though I do hesitate at my underwear. When Chrit snaps his fingers impatiently, I resign myself to baring myself completely, though there's one thing I cannot part with.

"This stays on," I say, fingering the silver necklace at my throat. When Chrit looks ready to object, I force my pride down and add, "Please."

"But it contrasts so horrendously with the rest of the outfit. Hmm, although . . ." His sharp eyes dart from my necklace to the costume Gem and Inai are handling. "I suppose a bit of contrast might be nice," he murmurs to himself. "Make you seem three-dimensional, not without heart. Yes. Yes, all right."

I can't believe he actually agreed. But, through the brushing of my hair (ow), the waxing of my legs (_ow_), and the, ah, "bikini wax", as Chrit called it (don't even ask), no one says another word about my necklace.

Good, because I need it. It reminds me of home, and that keeps me grounded, even in the crazy world of the Capitol.

"So, what do you think?" Chrit asks when I finally find myself standing in front of a mirror, fully clothed and more made up than I've ever been in my life. "Of course, your opinion doesn't matter, but if you've got any glowing praise, I'm always up for hearing that."

"Well, it's . . . certainly something."

Is it ever. I'm clad in a brown leather bodysuit with a v-neckline that dips so low, I can't stop blushing. Gem and Inai clearly went nuts with their instructions to pad the outfit, because my non-existent curves have not only been made real, they're significantly larger than I think is natural. Honestly, I could probably jump out the window, and if I landed on my rear, I wouldn't feel a thing.

At my waist is a horribly bedazzled parody of a rodeo belt, which were all the rage in 10 before the war. The number of my district is displayed in an enormous, bold font on the front of the belt; I can't see myself being able to sit with this ridiculous thing on. My ability to walk properly has likely been compromised as well, thanks to the leather boots drowning in tassels.

Is this what the Capitol thinks of 10's fashion? Really?

But I bite my tongue and hold in any negative comments, because Chrit is right: my opinion doesn't matter anyways. Besides, as long as I'm still allowed to wear my necklace, I'll be all right.

My fingers find the silver chain again, drifting over its rugged surface until they stop at the heart pendant that sits over my chest. The necklace is a family heirloom, passed down from mother to daughter for generations, but my current situation has given it so much more meaning than a simple, sentimental trinket. It reminds me I can't lose my heart.

I can't become heartless. Not like my father. Whatever the rules of these Games, I will _not _hurt others like he has hurt me and the rest of my family.

Despite my determination, I can still hear the faint whisper of doubt from the back of my mind. _But how will you escape the Hunger Games if you don't hurt anyone? You don't want to die, do you? Not when Mom and all your siblings still need you back home. If it's kill or be killed, Reese, what will you really do? What will you resort to?_

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><p><strong><em>Next chapter is the chariot rides, the first one where all the tributes are in the same area together. Which means tribute interactions! Anyone excited? I'm excited.<em>**


	13. Andromeda: My Purpose

_**Sorry for the wait on this one, my break wound up being even busier than school. And I have a midterm tomorrow. Whoops.**_

_**This chapter was originally supposed to encompass the chariot rides, but I wanted to throw in so much tribute interaction, it got too long. So the actual "ride" part of the chariots will be in the next chapter.**_

_**Also, if anyone has any suggestions for who they'd like their tribute to interact with or ally with, shoot me a PM. Or if you have any suggestions at all, really. I can't guarantee I'll use them, but I'm always up for listening to new ideas. **_

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><p><strong>Andromeda Eriae, 18, District 2<strong>

I shouldn't be here.

God, story of my life. One place to the next, one tragedy after another, and did I deserve a single fucking one? _No._

Rebel bastards. Capitol bastards. Everyone can go rot in hell.

_Especially that fucking stylist and his fucking body paint._

I grimace as yet another itch develops on my skin. Pretty sure I'm allergic to this crap, but did my stylist care? Of _course _not. So here I am, covered in white and silver paint that doesn't rub off, and likely developing the biggest fucking rash in human history.

_Fuck._

Luckily the elevator doors open before I can start kicking the wall, and my anger dissipates slightly at the overwhelming sights and sounds that greet me.

I've never seen a horse in real life, but now there are dozens of them around the stables, whinnying and pawing the ground while Capitol attendants harness them. Honestly, they're a bit disturbing: long faces, huge teeth, all-around nasty looking—and don't even get me started on the horses.

The chariots themselves are something else, much bigger than I'd imagined, each designed to represent a certain district. Impressive at first glance, sure, but, uh, there are two wheels on these things and no backs. I bet five bucks someone falls out by the end of this.

Knowing my luck, it'll probably be me.

What draws my eyes the most, however, are the people—the other kids. Just like me, they're dressed in all manner of ridiculous costumes, but the strangest thing is how familiar some of them seem to be with each other. Already they've broken into small groups, chatting amongst themselves like it's the first day of school and they don't want to be the one loner in the corner.

What the hell is up with these kids? They do know why we're here, yes? They do know what the Capitol wants from us?

No, I suppose, no they don't, or at least, they don't want to admit it. I saw the same behaviour in my district partner on the train. Chance may be only twelve, but his family is infamous in 2; I've heard enough about them to know the kid's seen some horrible things in life. Yet still he avoided the subject of the Hunger Games whenever I brought it up. He doesn't believe, or doesn't _want _to believe, the Capitol would ever go through with this. He thinks we'll be saved, by either the rebels or the Capitol's mercy.

How many of these kids feel the same way? I do see quite a few smiles that definitely wouldn't be present if the wearer truly believed they might die in a few days.

And me? Where do I fit in? What do I think?

Honestly, my brain's such a fucking mess most of the time, I don't even know.

A Capitol attendant rushes by me, knocking into my shoulder as he goes, and it's all I can do to prevent my training from taking over and myself from slamming the guy into the ground. People aren't exactly my forte—not after everything they've done to me.

_Just keep your head down, don't make eye contact, and head to your chariot. You can avoid others there._

Well, it sounded like a good plan, in theory. In practice, however, it doesn't work because _there's a whole bunch of fucking kids surrounding my chariot._

Why me? Why?

I stride over to the District 2 chariot, easily recognisable for its coating of paint identical to my own. Chance blends in perfectly with it; every inch of his skin and hair is grey, just like mine. Only difference is, where I have a silver breastplate, he's completely naked save the chainmail draped around his waist and smaller chains wrapped around his biceps and ankles. All right, I have to hand it to the Capitol stylists—our costumes do look pretty impressive.

Or at least they would if one of us wasn't a short, scrawny twelve-year-old.

"I'm not kidding, they spent _four hours_ painting to emphasise my 'muscles'," Chance is saying to some tall girl and black-haired boy. 9 and 12, if I recall from last night's reapings recap. "Wanted it to look like you could 'grate cheese on my abs'. I mean, seriously? Do you think you could grate cheese on these abs?"

The 12 boy laughs. "Nah, but you might have better luck on your ribs."

"Like you're one to talk," the 9 girl says, grinning as she pokes his protruding ribs visible even through the skin-tight black jumpsuit he's in.

"Hey!"

"_Ahem_."

At once, all three kids freeze and wheel around to face me. At least they're well-trained.

Chance hesitates, then gives me a small, nervous wave. "Oh, hi, Andromeda. You, um, you look good. Better than me in this, definitely—"

"What's going on here?" I interrupt, turning my narrowed gaze at each kid in turn.

"Right. This is Jeanette from Nine, and Milo from Twelve. Guys, this is Andromeda, my district partner."

The boy, Milo, looks me up and down and grins. "'Sup, Andy?"

The glare I shoot his way cows him pretty quickly. Chance winces and whispers, "Yeah, don't call her that."

"You make friends fast," I continue to my district partner, though I keep my gaze on Milo until he starts to fidget nervously.

"Oh, this just kind of . . . happened. Jeanette came over to talk to me, then Milo came over to talk to her, and, yeah."

"And _them_?"

I jerk my head to the left, where not too far away, another group of tributes stands. If I remember them correctly, it's the pairs from 7 and 8 surrounding the boy from 9.

Jeanette smiles. "Oh, that's just Stanley doing his thing."

Fine, but chariot covered in grain stalks for 9 is way over on the other side of the stables. "Why is he doing it _here_?"

"He'd never give you a straight answer," Jeanette says cheerily. "I think he's looking out for me. He's a nice guy like that."

"A nice guy like that" has somehow managed to procure three cups, and is currently shuffling a sugar cube around with them, calling for everyone to place their bets. When the boy from 8, at the insistence of his district partner, reluctantly picks a cup revealed to have nothing under it, Jeanette's district partner smiles and takes the boy's silver ring token.

Yeah, nice guy.

"Well, if he moved over here because of you, then he can move back to your chariot because of you." I stare Jeanette straight in the eye (damn, she's tall), and snap, "Go."

The girl's eyes widen, and she looks to Chance for support. Thankfully _he's _not a complete dunce; he spent enough time on the train with me to know I hate people.

"Hey, Milo, your district partner's close to our age, right?" Chance says, smiling and hurriedly pushing the other two away from our chariot. "You should introduce us."

"Tierza? No way, total buzzkill. Wouldn't even believe me when I was describing how hot I am."

"In her defense, you are a terrible liar," Jeanette says, giggling. But after a nervous glance in my direction, she continues, "But yeah, let's go say hi to her."

The three of them hurry off in the direction of 12's chariot, thankfully at the other end of the stable from ours. Good. Now to get rid of these other kids.

"Bit harsh, don't you think?"

I turn towards the voice to see Jeanette's district partner staring at me as he shuffles his cups around. Not once does he have to glance down to look at what he's doing—clearly, he's done this before.

"I'm not going to take lessons in manners from a con man," I bark, earning the attention of the four kids he had entranced with his cup-shuffling.

Stanley's pace doesn't slow, but his eyes narrow for a moment. "A con man?" He smirks. "What makes you say that?"

"Come on, the sugar cube's up your sleeve. Oldest trick in the book."

The pair from 7 and 8 turn back to stare at him, but Stanley merely grins. "Oh, really?"

He stops moving the cups and holds out both his arms, shaking the sleeves of the grain suit he wears. Nothing falls out.

"Shame on you for trying to place the blame on others for a crime _you _committed." Stanley hops up from the box he was squatting on and strides towards me. I shrink back, baring my teeth at him, but he's faster than I assumed. Before I know it, he's got a hand by my ear, pretending to pull a sugar cube from it.

"Trying to squirrel away a snack, were you? You do know these are for the horses, right?" He smirks, flicks the sugar cube into the air, and catches it in his mouth.

Some in his stupid group nod approvingly. I look on, unimpressed and heavily irritated.

"Get the fuck away from me."

"No need for language," the girl from 7 pipes up. When I turn my glare on her, she blushes, but continues, "I just meant, well, there are young kids here. Besides, we're all on the same side."

"And what side is that, exactly?"

"The rebel side, obviously!" her district partner jumps in, slinging an arm around the girl's shoulders and ruffling her hair. From the looks of it, this has happened more than once and she's resigned to putting up with it. "We're all here because we wanted to stick it to the Capitol!"

_What? _That's impossible—I was never on the rebels' side during the war, and I sure as hell wasn't afterwards. "Beg pardon?"

"Oh come on, you know it's true." The lumbering idiot gives me a grin and sticks out a meaty hand which I refuse to shake. "Volt Tron from Seven, though I used to live in Five. Had to jump districts after the Peacekeepers found out we were trying to blow up our Capitol-loving asshole of a mayor."

"You really shouldn't be saying things like that," his district partner mutters. "You'll get in trouble."

"More trouble than the Capitol's already throwing our way? Trust me, honey, we're fucked as is. They obviously already know about me. And you, since you're here."

The girl's blush deepens, but my curiosity has been peaked. Something about all these kids being rebels has got me thinking.

"Caragh, right?" When the girl nods, I continue, "So, why are you here?"

"I never fought the Capitol," she says quickly. "I just . . . helped with the evacuation. I used to live in Four, and we were helping get people on the coast to safety . . ."

Her voice peters out and her gaze turns nervous as she stares up at me. The others are giving me odd looks as well—ah, I might be doing that whole I'm-going-to-kill-you expression again.

But I don't give a damn. It's because of this girl and people like her that most of my family is dead. I used to live in Four as well, just like Caragh, and my parents were the ones who had the foresight to see the war coming. _They_ were the ones who thought to move to an island before the fighting even started. But then the rebels came, acting like they owned the place, and they didn't exactly take well to a family with good connections to the Capitol living on "their" land.

Was this girl one of those who helped the murderers of my family?

"Um, are you o—?"

"This is my chariot," I say sharply, cutting Caragh off so sharply she recoils as though my words physically hurt her. "Go back to your own, or wherever, I don't care, but get away from here. _Now._"

"Ex_cuse_ me?" the girl from 8 cuts in, her eyes narrowing in a glare as she starts forward, but her district partner pulls her back.

"Everything that's going on, it's a tough adjustment," he murmurs to her. "We're in a new place surrounded by people our districts were just fighting. Everyone's on edge. Don't fault her for it."

"Only her district _wasn't _just fighting the Capitol, was it?" the girl snarls, eyes still focused on me as she wrenches her arm from his grasp. "They were fighting _with _them. You Two bastards were oh so high and mighty when the war began, claiming to be _neutral_, but you were just waiting to sell your army to the highest bidder."

I match her glare with one of cold fury to offset her burning anger. "Actually—"

"Oh, no. No way. Do _not _try to fucking talk your way out of this one. You see this?" She rubs viciously at her right eye until the makeup is smeared and smudged, revealing a thin, white scar beneath. "I got _this _thanks to your fucking people. I lost my brothers, my aunts, uncles, cousins, my boyfriend, all to those monsters you call 'Peacekeepers', and you're trying to tell me you're _not _the bad guy?"

My stony expression doesn't change. "Actually, I was going to say I lived in Four all my life until a few months ago, but sure, if you want to keep ranting about Two, go right ahead."

That shuts her up, at least, for the moment. Unfortunately, Caragh seems to have regained her confidence.

"Four?" she says, her eyes roaming over every feature of my face, brow furrowed in thought. Then her eyes widen. "Wait, your last name, wasn't it—"

"I'll only repeat myself one more time," I growl in a tone that's deadly quiet. "Leave. _Now_."

Thankfully, she doesn't need to be told twice. Grabbing her district partner's arm, Caragh drags him off towards their chariot while the boy from 8 does the same with Miss Hothead. Stanley remains for a moment, watching everyone run off, then sighs and begins collecting his cups.

"Well, I suppose that's that," he says, balancing the tumblers in a tower on his palm as he brushes past me. "Way to ruin the first bit of fun these kids have had in a while."

"I doubt 'fun' is the reason the Capitol brought us here," I snap.

He glances back over his should and laughs. "Since when has anyone here cared about the Capitol's plans?"

A large part of me yearns to stride over there and smack that smirk off his face, but his words hold me back. _Yes, _I muse, watching Stanley head back to his chariot. _When have any of these kids cared about the Capitol's plans? Aren't they all rebels?_

It only becomes easier to see when I'm left alone to observe. Obviously the girl from 8 was with the rebels, and while I know little about her district partner, I doubt she'd let him hang around if he supported the Capitol. Both Volt and Caragh helped the districts during the war. Who knows if Stanley picked a side, but even if he didn't, a con man isn't exactly the kind of person the Capitol wants in their perfect Panem.

There are others too. The pair from 1 seem normal on the surface, waiting in their chariot and done up in dark outfits with crowns of obsidian on their heads, but every time a Capitolite passes, the boy flinches and the girl's carefully-maintained expression of neutrality cracks. Even if they're not full-blown rebels, they don't seem to be on good terms with the Capitol.

Then there is the pair from 3 exiting the elevator, the girl fuming as she stumbles and trips in her black gown. Wasn't she the one screaming and cursing during her reaping? If I had to guess, I'd peg her as a rebel. Again, the way she keeps her district partner by her side indicates he may be one as well.

The 4 boy I remember as Arc Malvina, only because his sister was also originally reaped. Could it be a rebel connection that has the Capitol so intent on stealing away one of these kids? And what about his partner, Selene Redstone. Hers is a name I actually remember from my time in 4, considering she's the mayor's daughter. Her family bore the Capitol no love either, and though she wasn't picked to be here, that doesn't mean she's not a rebel. By the looks of things, all of these kids are.

All except one.

I worked for Octavian August, back when he was the mayor of 2. He didn't know me, of course, but he knew there was someone out there doing the dirty work. Trained like a Peacekeeper, but without the uniform and title so it was easier to gain the trust of others. After all, who would suspect the eager eighteen-year-old with pretty hair and nice eyes of being a Capitol agent? I wormed my way through the depths of 2's society, and in doing so, uncovered all the hidden groups of rebels. And I killed them.

Didn't see that one coming? Neither did the rebels.

People wonder why 2 is so calm, why it has so few people fighting back against its Capitol-loving government—because of me and others like me, who are trained to get rid of anarchists before they make a fuss.

Now Octavian August has moved to the Capitol, and so have I. Does that mean . . . could I be here to work for him? Everyone in 2 kept saying the Hunger Games were only for the rebels, and I appear to be the only non-rebellious one here. It's obvious, then, isn't it?

I was sent here to maintain peace. I was sent here to kill twenty-three more rebels in a very public execution, to ensure no one ever stands against the Capitol again.


	14. Katerina: We're All on the Same Side?

_**So my teachers are on strike, and my education's on hold. Yeah. Silver lining is I'll have more time for writing, so chapters might be coming quicker for the next little while. **_

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><p><strong>Katerina Mossiac, 14, District 11<strong>

It's too loud. It's too loud, it's too loud, it's too loud.

I whimper and try to shove my fingers further in my ears, but it's _still too loud._ The neighing, the shouting, the pounding footsteps. But the worst is the rumble. I try to tell myself it's nothing threatening, just the same sound I heard when I was walking to the reapings with my family. "Simply the sound of a crowd gathering," my father had said as he practically dragged me down the street so the Peacekeepers wouldn't punish us for being late. "Nothing to worry about, Katerina. It's not what you think."

But this time, this time it _is._ I'm sure of it. The rumbling that precedes hundreds of Peacekeepers marching through the street, or the sound of bombs being dropped, or buildings collapsing on their inhabitants, it's _that_ rumbling. That's why everyone is shouting.

"Hey, kid! Time to go!"

The war is back.

"Get back to your chariot, now!"

I'm going to die.

"Kid!"

A hand wraps around my wrist, yanking my finger out of my ear. My reaction is immediate. Without even opening my eyes, I let out a hysterical shriek and slap my attacker with my free hand. There's a pained grunt, and the grip around my wrist loosens, but I know it's not over. It's never over. If you stop fighting, you die.

My eyes flash open and land immediately on my attacker. Her uniform says it all: Peacekeeper. The white bringers of death.

With another scream, I rake my nails down her cheek, writhing and kicking to escape her evil presence. But for every Peacekeeper hurting someone, there are always ten more in the shadows just waiting to back up their fellow monster. It's a fact I remember too late, only seconds before my arms are gripped by two powerful men dragging me out of my safety corner and into the chaos of the stables beyond. All the while, the menacing rumble grows louder. I can't let it get me, I can't!

"Goddammit, why can't we just shoot them?" one of the Peacekeepers snarls over my scream.

"We have our orders," the other says calmly, though his expression quickly turns into a grimace as my flailing leg catches him on the shin.

"Just one, that's all I'm asking for. One to make an example of. The others wouldn't be so keen to resist after that."

_The others. Yes, the others! _There are other kids like me here, right? I didn't want to approach them because they were too loud and dressed in scary costumes, but now I can see how similar we are. Two other girls are screaming at the Peacekeepers, a blonde and a brunette, though their faces are twisted and they look terrifyingly furious. A little boy is nervously backing away from the approaching authorities, and farther down the chariot line, another is swearing colourfully at them, middle finger thrust in the air. All these displays of resistance, and more. For once, I'm not the odd one, the hysterical one, the crazy one. They're all just like me.

And Kale, what about him? The friend I made on the train, the boy I followed around everywhere so he could protect me from that scary Capitolite, where is he? I need his help!

There, there! By some other tall boy with a frown on his face. They've been caught by the Peacekeepers too, but neither looks like they're putting up a fight as they're shove in opposite directions.

"Yeah, okay, I'm going," I hear Kale snap as we're both dragged towards the chariot bedecked with plastic fruit. "I get it, you're the tough guys and you're not to be messed with. Fine. Can I walk by myself?"

In answer, they shove him up into the chariot. One Peacekeeper steps up and snaps something around Kale's wrist. Handcuffs.

"Oh, come on," Kale grumbles as the Peacekeeper snaps the other cuff around a bar in our chariot. "Really? I'm not going anywhere."

"Hey!" one of my handlers calls as he drags me up to the chariot. "Got an extra pair for her? Psycho bitch nearly clawed Eirene's eye out."

_Me, _I realise. _They mean me. They want to handcuff me. Like they did with all those captured rebels. Right before the execution._

My scream is louder this time than any of my previous ones. I thrash about desperately, wrenching my arms this way and that, because they have to let go, I can't be caught, I can't be killed, I _can't_!

"Katerina! Katerina, stop, all right?"

Kale's words stop me, if only for a moment. His eyes are focused on me, and while he looks a bit irritated, I can't help but be reminded of Clare. They both have the same warm, brown eyes. And Clare is my friend. So Kale is my friend? I-I think so. Should I listen to him now?

I have no time to decide on an answer. The moment I stop moving, the Peacekeepers leap on the opportunity to shove me into the chariot and clamp a cuff around my wrist. The metal feels cool and hard against my bare skin, restraining me, caging me, _suffocating me. _It seems to shrink every second, getting tighter and tighter until my circulation dies and my hand falls limp.

I want it off, I want it off, I want it _off._

"Katerina, calm down," Kale whispers as my breaths turn into frantic wheezes, barely audible over the clanging metal as I try to yank the cuff away from the bar it's attached to. "Look it's going to be okay, just don't make a fuss."

"Th-th-this is what they wore," I stammer, pulling my hand as hard as I can even though it's too big to slip through the cuff. "The rebels, the rebels. Aunty S-Sage. Uncle F-F-Fennel. I can't be like them, I can't!"

"Shhh." Kale glances worriedly in the direction of the nearest Peacekeeper, who looks over at my outburst. "Katerina, we're not going to be like them, all right? This isn't an execution, it's a . . . parade."

"A p-parade?"

"Yeah. You ever go see the Harvest Parade in the capital, before the war?"

"Uh-huh." My parents took me and my brother each year. I always got to sit on Dad's shoulders because he was the tallest, and that way I could see all the floats and people in pretty costumes. I always wanted to be like the girls in the parade, but Mom said I'd never have a chance because people from the working class weren't picked.

"Well, that's this. We're in a parade right now. So it's nothing to, you know, freak out about."

_Is _this a parade? The chariots don't look like parade floats at all, and 11's parades never had horses. But everyone's in costume, even me and Kale. I ruffle my colourful dress and touch my fruit basket hat. It's not exactly what the girls from 11 wore, but this is a Capitol parade. Maybe the style is different here.

I squeal as our chariot jerks forward, and my free arm wraps around Kale's without really thinking. He sighs the way Mom does when she's annoyed, but doesn't say anything, so I continue to squeeze his hand as we slowly inch forward.

"What's going on?"

"The parade's starting. Look."

He tries to point up ahead, but when I don't release his arm, simply jerks his head in the direction to which he's referring. We're pretty far back in the stables, but across the enormous room, I can just see the square of light indicating open doors and the chariot moving through it. The rumble intensifies as well, no longer the sound of a thousand mumbles, but the collective shouting of . . . something.

"Kale, what's that noise?"

"Um, cheering. Like everyone does for a parade." He bites his lip and turns away, mumbling, "Yeah."

People think my hysterics mean I'm stupid, but I'm not. The moment the third chariot in the line exits the stables, I realise the sound is definitely not a happy one. But why would anyone be anything other than happy for a parade?

I don't know, and I don't want to find out. But all too soon, the chariots in front of us roll out until it's our turn to go.

My grip tightens on Kale's arm. Maybe this looks kind of like the parades back in 11, but it's definitely not the same. Suddenly, I have no desire to participate in this. I want to go. I want to go _home_.

"Kale, make it stop," I whimper as our chariot rolls towards the door. "Kale, I don't want to do this. Kale, please, Kale—"

"Will you shut up?" he snaps.

I flinch, letting go of his arm and staring up at him in shock. He . . . he was supposed to be my friend.

Tears sting my eyes, yet even with watery vision, I can see Kale glance at me and sigh.

"Look," he grumbles softly. "I'm sorry, all right? But there's nothing anyone can do. Just keep your head down and prepare yourself. I think it's gonna get ugly."

_But you said it was a parade. Like the ones back in 11. They were only ever pretty._

_You lied to me._

I can't yell at him though. I can't do anything. At that moment, our chariot rolls out the door, and things do indeed get very, very ugly.

I knew the "cheer" from the crowd sounded off, and I was right, because it's not cheering, it's _booing. _We emerge in a stadium filled with Capitolites, and all are out of their seats with their shaking fists in the air, screaming insults and curses down at the tributes. There are things flying down from the seats as well: rocks, eggs, rotten fruit. Many of the others' costumes are already ruined and stained.

As soon as the crowd sees our chariot, though, everything goes to hell. Somehow, the booing grows louder, shaking the very foundation of the stadium with hatred. Malicious laughter rises up from the crowd as we're pelted with anything the audience can get their hands on. A mouldy tomato bursts against my hip, an egg slams against my tall hat; I shriek and duck beneath the rim of the chariot, but the barrage is relentless.

The tears are returning, racing down my face faster than I can blink them away. Why, why are they doing this to us? I never hurt them! It was just m-my aunt, my un-uncle, and now they're dead, so why does the Capitol still hate? What have we done that could possibly merit this?

The chariot is small, but not too small that I can't sit with my back to the front of the carriage, knees pressed up against my chest. My arm is held up uncomfortably thanks to the handcuffs, but I don't care—anything to avoid all those hateful stares.

Our chariot hits a bump and I shriek, nearly sliding off, but Kale grabs my free arm once more and keeps me stable. I cling to him like he's my only life preserver in this sea of chaos, awed by the fact that he can remain so strong and impassive in the face of such overwhelming hostility.

Although he might not be as calm as he's letting on. Every time something flies out of the bleachers to hit us, his eye twitches, and the fingers of his free hand haven't stopped tapping the chariot bar since we got going. Maybe he is like me, then—just better at hiding it.

I squeak as our chariot stops abruptly. The cries from the audience and the amount of things being thrown our way seem to have lessened as well, but I don't dare rise. They might start hurting me again.

"What's going on?" I whisper up to Kale.

"We're stopped in front of some fancy-ass mansion," he mutters back. "Think it's . . . yep, there's the president on the balcony. Bitch."

No sooner does the insult leave his lips than a voice booms across the square, thousands of times louder than any person should speak. I whimper and plug my ears again, but it's no use. The presence of the Capitol is everywhere.

"People of the Capitol, welcome! And to our . . . _guests_ from the districts, a big, warm welcome to you as well."

Cruel laughter erupts from the crowd. Somewhere down the line of tributes, I think I hear someone swearing.

"You're likely wondering why I've gathered you hear like this. Of course, you know of the Hunger Games, but why the chariot rides beforehand?

"As I'm sure many of you know, my family has had a long and noble history. Even before the formation of Panem, we were one of the most powerful families in a country once known as Italy. Long, long before that, our ancestors were the Romans. Do you know of the Roman Empire? It was the greatest civilisation of the ancient world. Indeed, my namesake was the reason the era of the Roman Empire began.

"I wish this for Panem. For too long, we have been known only as a struggling nation, still recuperating from disasters that happened too long ago to properly remember. This is unacceptable. Are we not deserving of more? Should we not shed our title of a country that merely 'survives', and trade it for a more glorious one? Should we not be known as an empire of victors?"

The cheering from the crowd is deafening. It makes me want to curl up and die.

"If we want to be like our ancestors, we must then follow in their footsteps. Do you know what some of the most famous pastimes of the Romans were? Gladiatorial combat and chariot racing. And so we pay tribute to our ancestors before the Hunger Games begin with this parade, an homage to the ancient sport.

"Now, to our _lovely _tributes. I see the faces you are making, the hateful words you are attempting to shout. Why? As far as punishment for your districts' heinous actions go, I see this as merciful. Know that not all gladiators in Ancient Rome were slaves or the conquered. Many saw this as an opportunity to win fame and fortune beyond their wildest dreams, and scores of free men openly volunteered for the games. Evidently, some of you already understand this. Good. I cannot wait to see you compete, to take down those undeserving of their spot in the Hunger Games and to fight for the prize you know is worth it."

The president continues talking for a bit after that, but I don't want to listen, no, no, no. What does she mean, some people will compete in these Hunger Games? Father told me during the goodbyes, he said no one would ever think of complying. The Capitol could never make us fight. We're all on the same side.

I keep thinking that over and over, even after the president says goodbye, even after the national anthem plays, even after our chariot returns to the stables under a new storm of rocks and insults. The president's words don't make sense. I mean, Kale said there were volunteers for the Hunger Games from that show he watched last night, but even if he's telling the truth, they must have had a good reason. And still, no one's actually going to k-k-kill each other.

No, it's going to be all right. I'm going to be safe.

Kale still looks nervous, his fingers tapping rapidly even as a Peacekeeper comes over to let us out of the handcuffs. His free hand is still in mine, and I squeeze it reassuringly. For him, not for me. I know everything's going to be all right. We're all on the same side. I'm going to be safe.

"It's going to be okay," I say, standing up to face him after the Peacekeeper releases me. Kale seems surprised at my sudden calm, and frankly, I am too, but what is there to worry about? "No one's going to fight. We're all on the same side."

I'm going to be safe.

I give Kale a tentative smile before the Peacekeeper interrupts, snapping at us to get a move on towards the elevators. And I do, because I know we're all on the same side, and I'm going to be safe.

Until I reach the elevators. Until I find myself standing beside a boy I hadn't noticed before.

It . . . No, it can't be.

The curly black hair. The steel grey eyes. That jagged scar from his cheekbone to his jaw.

No. No, no, no, no, no, no.

"You!" I screech, stumbling away.

The boy jumps and glares at me, but the expression freezes when he takes in my outfit. I can see the thoughts in his head, adding up like a math problem. _District 11. I'm from District 11. The district he betrayed._

My aunt and uncle _died_. Because of _him_.

I want to run away, run as far as I can from the murderer who brought so much death upon us. But I also need to attack him, stop him before he hurts me and anyone else. So I leap forward, hands up, nails out, tears of hatred and fear streaming down my face—

—only to be pulled back as Kale wraps his arms around my waist. "Katerina," he grunts, ducking as my flailing fist comes hi way. "Katerina, _stop_, what are you—?"

"It's _him_!" I shriek, jabbing my finger at the boy now trying to hide his face and push the elevator button furiously. "Him, him, him! He killed my aunt, he killed my uncle, he killed _everyone_!"

We're slowly accumulating an audience as the other tributes glance up to see what the commotion is all about. A girl near the murderous monster is frowning in confusion, nudging his arm while he refuses to look her way. Close by, one of the girls who was shouting earlier steps out of the crowd of onlookers.

"Hey, I know you, don't I?" she asks the murderer, though her eyes keep darting back to me. "Yeah, Velour Estrada's third or fourth cousin, or something like that. You stayed in Eight for a bit, didn't you? What was your name again?"

"Mind you own business," the boy snaps, only to flinch back as Kale steps towards him. My district partner keeps one arm around my waist, but the other hand shoots out to grab the killer's chin before he can hide his face again.

Both of them suck in a sharp breath.

"Well, shit," Kale mutters quietly. "Aemillius Lewellyn."

"Don't touch me," the murderer of our people snarls, smacking Kale's hand away. He can try to glare all he wants, though; it doesn't hide the cornered look in his eyes. Everyone's staring at him, mostly curious, but Kale's gaze is deadly. I'm not even trying to fight his grip anymore. Anything I can do, I think he can do worse.

Kale opens his mouth, but before he can speak, the elevator arrives at the stables, and Aemilius Lewellyn races in, slamming his hand on the closing doors button. No one moves save the girl who was nudging him earlier; she hops inside just in time to turn and give us an awkward wave.

"And I'm Sam Hoffman. Nice to meet you guys."

The doors close, and they disappear from view. Kale and I are still staring at the spot where they once were.

"So," the girl who spoke earlier says, stepping up to Kale's side. "What the hell was that?"

Kale opens his mouth to answer, but I speak before he can. I'm not even talking to the girl, not really—I'm not talking to anyone but myself.

"Aemillius Lewellyn," I stammer, shivering as Kale cautiously lets go of me. "Aemillius Lewellyn. H-H-He was the one who . . . wh-who killed everyone. In El-Eleven. N-No, everywhere. All the r-rebels. Because he . . . h-h-he . . ."

I can't continue, not with images of my aunt and uncle's execution playing over and over in my head.

"He gave up the location of Eleven's rebel base," Kale finishes for me. "He's the reason we lost the war."

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><p><em><strong>Ooh, draaaaaama.<strong>_

_**I hope I'm slowly leaking info about everyone's history fast enough. It's a bit easier since a lot of these guys hopped around districts, so I can include info about tributes in chapters that aren't their own. I promise, everything will eventually become clear (and if not, I'll clarify further in a review or PM or something).**_

_**Also, Julia definitely did not write her speech. She is no history buff, and she doesn't realise her "namesake" brought about the Roman Empire by, you know, being stabbed to death. Way to go, Miss President.**_


	15. Riri: Ohana

_**Realised I've been dropping the ball on chapter warnings, sorry. So, for this one, lots of swearing, because it's Soren and he's a jerk.**_

_**No, I could not resist the Lilo and Stitch reference for the title. Don't judge me.**_

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><p><strong>Riri Kramer, 15, District 6<strong>

According the Capitol attendants, we're all to live in this tall building known as the Training Centre for the duration of our stay in the city. Frankly, I'm surprised. Everything so far seems so . . . nice. I was expecting little more than jail cells.

The one thing the Capitol seems to have skimped on is elevators. There's only one, and it's not nearly big enough to transport all of us at once. This means many of us are forced to wait, and to mingle with the other tributes while we do so.

I'm no fool; it's clear why the Capitol has done this. These Hunger Games of theirs, if they really happen, they hinge on the tributes' abilities and desires to hurt one another. Not many would jump to that if they were in a room with twenty-three strangers, but throw them together with people they've gotten to know just enough to hate? That's a different story. And it's working too—I can already hear dark whispers from some tributes concerning Aemillius Lewellyn from 5.

But this mingling business works both ways. I am also at liberty to speak with other tributes in a non-hostile fashion, which I've been wanting to do since I volunteered for this business. Unfortunately I had no time before the chariot rides thanks to that stupid Capitolite spending five hours rearranging the folds of my dress.

I'm free now, however. And all the kids I want to speak to have yet to enter the elevator. Excellent.

I weave my away around other tributes until I'm in front of the pair I've been meaning to approach and extend my hand. "Riri Kramer. Hi."

The girl looks up from talking eagerly while the boy's slightly forced smile disappears as both their expressions morph into those of surprise. It's not long before the girl recovers, however, and takes my hand with a warm smile.

"So nice to meet you! I'm Selene Redstone, and this is Arc—"

"I know."

"Oh. Right, I guess we're kind of all famous, aren't we?"

_Famous _isn't exactly the first word that comes to mind, but arguing on the finer points of our situation is not why I came over here.

"Look, I just wanted to ask . . ."

Both Selene and Arc stare at me curiously as I hesitate. I curse myself for doing it, for showing emotion when my training should have knocked it out of me, but I can't help it. For almost five years, I've been living in blissful ignorance, surviving day to day only because of the hope that when I finally had the chance to ask my question, the answer would be positive. Now the opportunity is here and I'm . . . scared.

_Riri Kramer, a rebel operative who's been living on her own in the most dangerous district, who's been to hell and back, is scared. Good God, get a grip and ask the damn question._

"Have you ever heard anything about the Kramers? Meriel and Adron, and their sons, Percival, Irwyn, Seton, Neifion, and Dyllon?"

"Wait, what?" the boy, Arc, asks. "Aren't you from Six? Why would we—?"

"She was originally from Four."

We all turn to the new speaker, a tall, freckled girl standing nearby. She blushes under our gaze, as though she didn't realise she'd spoken aloud.

"Sorry for intruding. I'm, um, Caragh. Caragh Ronisch. I just heard you talking about Four—I used to live there too. I actually had some questions too, if that's okay. Oh, but you first, of course."

"How'd you know I used to live in Four?" I ask, trying to contain the eagerness in my voice. I don't remember this girl at all, but if she knows me, then she might know my family.

"I saw your tattoo last night, watching the reapings on TV," Caragh says, nodding to my left hand, currently covered by sleek, black gloves.

"You have a tattoo?" Arc blurts out. His ears go red when I glance at him, and he looks at his feet, rubbing the back of his neck. "Sorry. It's just, um, cool."

"They're pretty common in Six." So is hepatitis, but I don't want to burst his bubble. "So, have any of you heard anything about the Kramers? All fishers, live in Saeger Cove, tiny little cabin on the edge of the village?" I don't mean to sound desperate, but I can't help it. Five years without any kind of information, and now I finally have the chance to find out, for better or for worse, what happened to my family.

But both Arc and Selene are shrugging and shaking their heads.

"So sorry," Selene says, putting her hand on my shoulder. "I don't know them."

"I do."

I'd almost completely forgotten about Caragh. She would have made a great rebel operative, the way she fades into the background so easily.

My full attention jumps back to her, heart pounding a mile a minute, unsure whether I should be excited or scared. "You do?"

"Sort of," Caragh says, all awkward now that everyone's eyes are on her again. "I was part of the group bringing evacuees from the coast to Four's islands. Pretty sure your family was on my ship. You had one older brother—ah, Percival, right? Eighteen, tall, bronze hair and blue eyes with a hint of green . . . um, not that I, you know, I mean, I watch everyone, observe everyone, not in a creepy way, but it wasn't just him that I—"

It takes me a few seconds before I'm able to cut her off, her words are so amazing to hear. _That's Perce. They all made it on the ship. They got to safety._

Caragh is still awkwardly stuttering when I raise my hand. "That's him, that's definitely him. You say they all got to the island fine?"

"Oh, um, last I saw, yes. They even joined up with the evacuation team shortly after to help others."

"And after the war ended? What then?"

"I, I don't know. Sorry. My family and I were stranded in Seven by then. Um, speaking of which," she continues, turning to Selene and Arc. "You wouldn't happen to know a Caliana Nawfar, would you? She's eighteen, black hair, has a long scar across her forehead . . ." When Arc and Selene shake their heads, she sighs. "Okay. I guess I could ask . . . Andromeda."

"Who?" Selene asks.

"The girl from Two. She used to live in Four as well. But, um, she's a bit . . . intimidating."

Caragh tries to subtly nod her head in the direction of a tall girl off in a corner by herself. She appears to be lost, brooding, in her own world, but I can tell at a glance she's listening intently to all the conversations going on around her. It makes me frown, especially as I continue to observe her. The way she stands, straight as an arrow, hands kept close to her waist and imaginary weapons, all her weight on the balls of her feet so she's prepared to spring into action at any moment. The way she watches the others, her gaze sharp and betraying no hint of emotion, though it's clear she's filing away every little bit of information she can get her hands on. The way she ever-so-subtly keeps to the shadows, maintaining a position where no one would think to glance and give her a second thought, unless they were expressly searching for her.

She is me. That posture, that attitude, it's everything I learned to become an operative for the rebels. Could she be another agent?

Whatever the case, it's definitely worth investigating.

Before I can think about walking over, however, the elevator returns to our floor, and I'm swept up by Arc, Selene, and Caragh as they all make to catch the next ride. We all wind up in the lift together, with one other tribute managing to slip in before the doors close.

I groan internally upon recognising him. _Soren. Damn it. _As far as relationships between district partners seem to go, well, we're no Arc and Selene. Believe me, I've tried to be cordial, but Soren is just a bit . . . uncivil.

All right, he's an ass. And yes, granted, I'm not the easiest person to befriend either.

But I'm just reserved. He's an ass.

"Oh, hello!" Selene beams, noticing the new arrival. "I don't think we've met. I'm—"

"Fuck off."

See? Ass.

"O-Oh." Selene slowly lowers her extended hand, and for a moment, her smile wavers. But the girl seems to be nothing if not determined, because seconds later, the cheeriness is back along with a sympathetic expression. "Oh, I see. You're upset about everything going on. Miss your home?" She reaches out a hand to pat him reassuringly. "Don't worry, I know the Capitol won't—"

Soren grabs her wrist and yanks her forwards so he's towering over her, despite being two years younger. "What part of 'fuck off' don't you get?"

"Lay off," I say, stepping between the two and forcing him to release Selene. Sure, I have no real attachment to the girl, but that doesn't mean I'm going to let Soren bully her. 6 has shown me enough tough guys preying on the week to last me a lifetime, and frankly, I'm sick of it.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Has the prissy little bitch made some prissy little friends?"

"The Peacekeepers said we're not allowed to hurt each other. Or don't you remember the Peacekeepers?"

He glowers at me. Despite the copious amounts of makeup his stylist slathered on his face, the bruise on his forehead from a Peacekeeper's baton is still visible.

"I remember the Peacekeepers, all right," he snarls, cracking his knuckles. "I just don't see any around right now. You want to test me, _Riri_?"

I can't stand the way he says my name, as though it sounds stupid and I should be insulted. "Are you sure you're up to it? There aren't any _Blazing Tires_ around to back you up."

He wants to mock my name, I'll mock that of his gang's. It is stupid, after all.

The elevator doors open before he can snap a response. We've arrived at the fourth floor, and while there aren't nearly as many Peacekeepers around as I would have thought—clearly Arc and Selene aren't as problematic as some of the other tributes—I can still see some men in white through the open doorways of their floor. Soren clearly does too; his fists lower slightly, though his glare only intensifies.

Arc glances once from Soren to me and tries to casually hightail it out of the elevator. Selene is more reluctant to go, teary gaze darting between us.

"Please, please don't fight," she says, trying to step in. "We don't have to hate each other. Maybe we could all just—"

Soren groans and shoves her out of the elevator, slamming the 'close doors' button before the Peacekeepers on Selene's floor can do anything. Harsh treatment, but I can't help feeling relieved. She'll get less hurt if she just stays out of this.

"So, you wanna go, Princess?" he snaps at me, raising his fists once more.

"I am an operative of the rebels, trained to hack computers, steal information, and blow up Peacekeeper bases," I say calmly. "You live in a nice house with a lot of money. Pretty sure the 'princess' here is _you._"

That sets him off. He snarls a curse and flies at me, fist heading straight for my head. He's fast, I'll give him that, but I'm trained in combat. My reflexes kick in well before he lands the hit, and I block easily with one hand, preparing to slam the other hard against the side of his neck to stun him.

We're both thrown off, however, as someone frantically stammers, "Whoa, whoa, whoa, I'm still in the elevator, I'm still in the elevator!"

Caragh—damn, how does she do that? I'd completely forgotten about her, and we're in a relatively small, glass compartment. Not exactly much room to disappear.

"What the hell are you still doing here?" Soren demands, turning his glare on her. "Get out."

"I'm on the seventh floor. And, um, I really don't think you guys should be—"

"Oh, for fuck's sake." Soren groans as the elevator reaches our floor. "We'll take this _outside_ then, God-fucking-dammit."

The doors open, and he storms out, right into the arms of the waiting Peacekeepers.

"There are cameras in the elevators, you know." Our escort, Sparla, leans on a wall off to the side, rolling her eyes as Soren snarls curses at the Peacekeepers grabbing him. "I thought we could trust you to at least ride the elevator like an adult, but clearly you district people are more juvenile than I thought. You too, Kramer. Get over here now, unless you wish to be forced by the Peacekeepers."

I may hate them, but that doesn't mean I want to give the Peacekeepers an excuse to touch me. Leaving a shocked and freaked-out Caragh behind, I stride out of the elevators. The doors close swiftly behind me.

Sparla puts a hand to her temples, rubbing furiously. "Children, absolute children. One would think you could refrain from your violent tendencies for _five minutes_. Is that too much to ask?"

In answer, I keep my arms crossed and stare impassively. Soren swears again and lashes out with a kick, knocking over an expensive-looking urn placed on a table.

There's a loud crash, followed by a deep breath from Sparla. Her nostrils flare as she exhales.

"You," she snaps at one of the Peacekeepers not restraining Soren. "Go get an Avox. Now."

He nods and hurries off. Surprisingly, Soren stops his struggling for a moment and frowns.

"A what?" he barks at Sparla.

It looks like she's not going to answer, just to spite him, but then she says, "An Avox. Well-trained servants for the Capitol who lack the ability to talk back. Interested in the career?"

"Of course not. It's just, my mom's name was . . . never mind, bitch."

Sparla shrugs off the insult, as she's grown so used to doing, but then she freezes. I watch her eyes narrow, dart to Soren, and widen slightly. It tips me off that she's realised something big, but I don't have time to understand what it is before everything goes to hell.

The same Peacekeeper returns to the hallway, a small, slim woman trailing behind him, her head down and face hidden by a mane of light, golden brown hair. The exact same colour as Soren's.

Oh.

I glance at my district partner to find him wearing an unsettlingly un-Soren-like expression. His eyes are wide with shock and disbelief, his face for once not screwed up in anger. I think I see his bottom lip tremble.

The very air around us freezes; Soren, Sparla, and I seem to have forgotten how to breathe. Perhaps the Avox woman senses it, for her hair shifts, and she chances a glance up at the rest of us. Her eyes lock on Soren.

There's a moment of silence, during which Soren sucks in a sharp breath.

"M-Mom?"

Then all hell breaks loose.

"You fucking pieces of shit! Fucking _fuck_, what the hell did you do to her? I'll kill you, I swear I will! I'll run you down with a motherfucking semi, you bastards!"

The Peacekeepers gripping Soren are trying to get him to calm down, but he's gone wild, kicking and punching all while screaming at the top of his lungs. They need backup, but the only other Peacekeepers around are holding the Avox back as she desperately mouths wordless cries, trying to my district partner—her son.

Meanwhile Sparla is trying to direct the chaos, calling for more Peacekeepers, shouting for everyone's attention, all while trying to duck the flailing limbs of those restrained. At one point, she stumbles away from Soren's flailing legs and bumps right into me.

"Riri, go to your room," she snaps, trying to control the one person who hasn't gone absolutely insane. "Now!"

I don't hesitate. This scene of Peacekeepers restraining a helpless kid, it's far too familiar for my liking. Besides, it's making me sick, watching Soren like this. There's something about seeing the guy you hate get so angry he's crying that makes you revaluate exactly who the enemy is.

Sparla had no time to tell me where my room is, but I run down the halls of our floor until I spot a bed through one of the doors I throw open. At any other time, I might be awestruck by the spaciousness and lavishness of my quarters. Now, my only wish is they had better sound-proofed the walls. I can still hear the screaming.

Yesterday, on the train, Sparla encouraged us to share our pasts with her and got very little in response. However, through the litany of swears from Soren, I learned one thing about him. His parents disappeared when he was nine, leaving behind only a large sum of money and a note that they were very sorry, but had something very important to do.

A few months later, the war began. Soren hadn't seen either of his parents since.

Until now.

Six years—that's six years without his parents. Longer than even I had to go alone, but then, I didn't have a sibling with me like Soren did.

Would that have been preferable, though? I try to picture life in 6 with fourteen-year-old Dyllon by my side. I love my brother to death, but still, I can't help but feel he'd be cumbersome to have around. I'd have to watch over him constantly, protect him and care for him, because, as I see it, that's my role as his big sister.

I don't think I've given Soren enough credit. So far, all I've seen when I look at him is his stupidity, the needlessness of him being here. If he had simply waited to hear me volunteer, both he and his sister would be living happily back in 6.

I'm not saying he wasn't stupid—oh no, he most definitely is. But he's brave too; I suppose the two go hand in hand. Brave, and willing to do anything for his family.

The shouting down the hall cuts off abruptly. I place my ear against the door, but I can't hear anything. My stomach twists anxiously; I don't want to think about how the Peacekeepers ended that fight.

I wonder, will I be that crazy when I finally see my mother again? And my father, and all of my brothers?

Because, like Soren, I volunteered for my family. I volunteered because it was the only way out of the hellhole that is 6. I didn't fully know what the Capitol is planning, whether they would actually go through with the Hunger Games or not, but I didn't care. If there was a microscopic chance a path would lead me back to my home district, I would jump on it.

So, here I am. Here we both are, Soren and I, because we will do anything and everything for our family. No matter the cost. No matter the consequence.

That's what makes us so dangerous.

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><p><em><strong>Ooh, <strong>_**more _drama. _**

**_Seriously though, Soren, how dare you use such language in front of your mother?_**

**_Next chapter will be the start of training, which means even more tribute interactions than the last few chapters. Hurrah!_**


	16. Volt: The Rebels Reborn

_**Two overdo notices. One, thank you so, so much to everyone who has helped this story get over 200 reviews! Your support is amazing, I never would have thought this story would be this big. Thank you!**_

_**Two, as of Riri's chapter, you've seen twelve tributes. We're halfway there!**_

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><p><strong>Volt Tron, 17, District 7<strong>

It takes three Peacekeepers to finally wrestle me into the elevator. Sure, I know fighting with them is pointless and will inevitably leave me worse off than I was before, but so what? If the alternative is laying down and letting them walk all over me, then yeah, I'll gladly send every little "fuck you" I can to the Capitol, no matter what the price.

I glance around at the three Peacekeepers. All still have their hands on their batons, but the guy on the left is zoning out. Could I punch him before we reach our destination? Yeah, probably—

Nope, that's a no. The moment I think about taking a step forward, the elevator doors slide open, and the Peacekeepers escort me out none too gently.

All right, I'll admit, my hatred for the Capitol doesn't quite drown out my awe as we step into the underground gym. Me and my siblings always used to work out in 5 and now 7, but that's like, running around on dirt tracks and lifting boxes of spare parts in the power plants. This place is designed to make any adrenaline junkie fall in love. I see a proper track around the edges of the gym, weight machines, punching bags, boxing rings—yep, my heart's speeding up a bit.

And weapons. Tons and tons of weapons. Swords, axes, spears, crossbows—uh, the Capitol does know who we are, right? And they're putting the _rebels_ in the same room as the weapons?

I smirk. Well then, maybe we won't have to wait for the adults to come rescue us.

No time to grab anything now, though, not with the Peacekeepers gripping my arms and leading me over to where the other kids stand. I'm one of the last ones down, looks like, and am pleased to see I'm not the only one with a Peacekeeper entourage. I nod approvingly at the girls from 3 and 8, who look back at me with equal respect. The boys from 6 and 10, however, don't acknowledge me. Come on, we're all rebels here, aren't we?

Footsteps behind me indicates another tribute entering the room, and we all turn to see the pair from 5 striding towards us. Ah, there's old Sammy Hoffman. I can't believe she got picked to be here—she always seemed like more nerd than rebel—but hey, she's here and surrounded by Peacekeepers, so that's cool.

Wait—the Peacekeepers don't seem to be looking after her. A couple glances are thrown her way every so often, but most of their attention is fixated solely on Sammy's district partner.

Right, the suddenly infamous Aemilius Lewellyn, who, according to the 11s, is a large part of the reason the rebels lost the war. Just the sight of him makes me glower. I don't remember him from 5, but as we were all discussing him last night, the little twelve-year-old, Chance said Aemilius was a 2 name. Figures—nothing but scum from that district, with very few exceptions.

The Peacekeepers usher Aemilius and Sammy over to the semicircle of tributes just as a Capitolite man I hadn't noticed before steps forward to address us.

"Greetings, tributes," he says in that ridiculous accent. "My name is Kairon, and I am here to introduce you all to the second stage of pre-Hunger-Games activities: the training. I am sure your escorts have gone over this with you in advance, but, in case they haven't, listen well now. The Capitol and its Gamemakers are merciful folk—"

The girl from 3 swears pretty colourfully at that, though she's silenced quickly by the Peacekeepers at her sides.

"Ahem. _Merciful _folk," Kairon continues with a glare in her direction. "Who have allowed you three days to train before you enter the arena. Here, you shall perfect yours skills and pick up some new ones so you might better your chances of winning the Hunger Games, which, as you all know, comes with a very pleasing set of rewards. There are a number of stations throughout the gym to test both your brains and your brawn, so don't overlook any of them. However, you might also want to hone one particular skill, so you might have something to show the Gamemakers when the three days are up."

"You keep using that word."

Everyone looks in surprise towards a girl with long, black hair. District 1, I think? One of the quiet ones I haven't heard speak yet.

She looks towards Kairon now, expression stony, eyes narrowed. "What does it mean? Gamemaker?"

Some Peacekeepers look like they're debating going to shut her up, but when Kairon waves his hand, they relax.

"Ah, yes, excuse me. Where are my manners?" He smiles, but it is in no way a pleasant one. "The Gamemakers are . . . well, they're right here."

He raises his hand to the balcony behind him, and on cue, the door swings open. Ugh, did they really rehearse this bullshit? If I had a nickel for every time I've rolled my eyes at the Capitol's ridiculousness—honestly.

Through the open door file men and women swathed in deep purple robes, noses in the air and sticks up their asses like they're royalty. It does little to interest me, until the last guy walks in.

_Him. _I remember him from the first Hunger Games announcement. Octavian August, brother to the president, former mayor of District 2, all-around asshole. _He's_ the reason we're all here.

Now he's in a room with me and a bunch of weapons. And I thought this day was going to go badly.

"These are your Gamemakers," Kairon says, gesturing to the balcony. "Led by the Head Gamemaker, Octavian August. These men and women will be watching you throughout your training, analysing your performance and taking notes as they see fit."

"Notes? What, is this a test?" That's Sammy speaking up; of course she'd be concerned with the possibility of an exam.

Kairon smiles that eerie, humourless smile again. "Of a sort. On the last day of training, beginning at one o'clock, you will be called in to perform your private training session, in which you will demonstrate to the Gamemakers exactly what you have learned over the past three days. You will then be assigned a score of one through twelve to rate your performance."

Sammy frowns. "And why do these scores matter?"

"Sponsors, of course. Your escorts have informed you about the sponsorship system, have they not?"

"Oh, they have," the girl from 8, Tully snaps. "I just don't see why we need to please you fuckers in order to survive."

She gets a sharp slap on the back of the head by a Peacekeeper for that. Kairon, however, doesn't stop smiling.

"Tullia, was it? Tullia O'Doyle? Ah, yes, I read your file. Parents own a restaurant, if I'm not mistaken?" When she glares in response, he continues, "Of course. Tell me, Miss O'Doyle, have you ever gone without food?"

She doesn't need to respond; her well-fed frame says it all.

Kairon chuckles under the might of Tully's glare, and instead turns his gaze on Chance standing not too far from her. "Mr. Hensley, you've been on the streets for two and a half years now, correct?"

The two thirteen-year-olds next to Chance glance at him in surprise. He swallows and shrugs. "Um . . . maybe?"

"That's a yes, then. Have you ever gone without food on the streets? Or were you having three-course meals every day?"

Once more, Kairon needs no verbal response to prove his point; anyone can see the kid's stick thin.

"And how difficult was that? Going without food?"

Again, no answer, but Chance's increasingly miserable expression says everything he doesn't. It makes me want to yell at Kairon for being such an ass to a little kid, but I have to bide my time. The Peacekeepers will never let me near those weapons if I keep drawing attention to myself.

Fortunately, Chance has made friends to help him out. "Hey, why don't you leave him alone?" the guy from 12 says, sticking out his tongue. "Or are you asking 'cause you don't know the answer yourself, fatty?"

Kairon still smiles, but something in his gaze hardens. He pats his rounded stomach. "Once, I did know the answer. But you'd have to ask Mr. Hackberry and Miss Mossiac more about that."

He glances over at the two kids from 11, only for a moment, but I still catch the fierce loathing in his expression. Right, 11 was the district that starved the Capitol during the war.

Shit. Those kids are screwed.

"Anyways, we've gotten off topic," Kairon says, regaining his creepy smile once more. "The point is, sponsors are very important for acquiring things you may not be able to find yourself in the arena. Food, water, medical supplies, weapons. They are a large part of the Hunger Games, and they will only spend their money on the best. No one wants to waste time and expenses on a loser. So perform well in the training sessions, or you won't be receiving anything in the arena."

_And depend on fucking _Capitolites_ for my survival? No way. _Kairon can take his stupid sponsorship system and shove it up his ass. Actually, he can shove the whole damn Hunger Games up his ass. It's never going to happen.

I know I said I'd be quiet to keep the attention off of myself, but I can't take it anymore. As Kairon starts to list all of the training stations, I can't help but blurt out, "You can't be fucking serious about all this. You really think if you put us all in an arena, we're going to start killing each other?"

Around me, all of the others suck in a breath, and I can tell I've done it: I've asked the question everyone's been thinking about since we got here. The Capitol is taking their Hunger Games so seriously, as though they're forgetting us kids are sane human beings with moral fibre. Do they really think we'd jump to murder to protect our own lives? Guess what, Capitol, there's another way to save our skins, and that's by no one hurting anyone. If none of us are willing to kill, none of us have to worry.

But Kairon keeps smiling that damn smile, as though he knows exactly what I'm thinking. "Mr. Tron, correct? I understand your thoughts. You believe none of you would ever hurt each other, so you'll all be safe, yes?"

I don't deign him with a response, but I see other kids nodding. Evidently I'm not the only one who's spotted this gigantic flaw in the Hunger Games.

"Well, that's all well and good for you, Mr. Tron, if you know you can't kill. But are you really so sure your fellow tributes are the same?"

"Um, _duh_. We're teenagers, not killers."

"And yet somehow you've all managed to survive one of the harshest wars in history. I can guarantee many of you did not do so by holding hands and making peace. Trust me, Mr. Tron, I've read all of your files. I know exactly who has spilt blood before, and who would be willing to do so again."

At first, I assume he's bluffing. Again, we're _teenagers_—what the hell does the Capitol think we've been up to?

Then I remember me and my siblings, despite being teenagers, were all involved in the plot to blow up 5's mayor.

Okay, but that was different! He was Capitol-loving scum, he doesn't count. I'd never kill a true human being, a fellow rebel.

Only, we're not all rebels here, are we? Not the way the 11s tell it. Who knows what Aemilius Lewellyn would do? He's killed good people before.

And what about that psycho guy from 10? I can see him now, glaring around at all of us. He doesn't look like he'd hesitate in snapping someone's neck.

Shit, I don't know what to believe anymore.

Kairon watches all the tributes glancing nervously at each other, and his smile widens. "Yes, well, happy training, everyone. Do remember you're not allowed to fight another tribute until you enter the arena. And for those of you who have any other . . . _ideas_, I invite you to notice the dozens of Peacekeepers around the room. If you are not using the stations as you have been instructed, and if you show any sign of wishing to harm another, they have been authorised to tranquilise you."

Well, that puts a bit of a damper on my plan.

Kairon grins and waves. "Now, have fun!"

I've never wanted to punch someone more.

Kairon heads off towards the gym's exit, leaving us all standing around like lost sheep. For the first time since we've arrived in the Capitol, we have a small amount of freedom over what we choose to do, and no one knows how to react.

"Um . . ." Everyone looks towards the girl from 4, who clears her throat, smiles, and continues, "So, shall we introduce ourselves first? Go in a circle saying names, districts, and, um, favourite colours? I can start. My name's Selene Redstone, I'm from Four, and my favourite colour would have to be pink."

Everyone stares at her, wordless, making her face turn said favourite colour. She quickly turns to her left.

"So, next?"

Unfortunately for her, she's wound up next to the brute from 10. Her smile falters in the face of his glare.

Slowly, without saying anything, the guy turns away and stomps off, followed by his entourage of Peacekeepers. I swear, his every footfall makes the floor shake; it makes me nervous, and it's not like I'm a small guy either.

The 10 boy comes to a stop at the machete station, grabs a sword from the trainer, and, without waiting for an explanation or lessons, starts hacking away at the nearest dummy.

Somewhere in the semicircle of remaining tributes comes a quiet, "Oh dear."

I tear my gaze away from the boy's vicious demonstration as, unwillingly, Kairon's words about trusting each other come back to me. If there was ever a guy I couldn't rely on to not kill me, well, it's Mr. Murderous from 10.

Argh, no, I'm not supposed to think like this! It's not possible for these Hunger Games to happen, they just . . . they can't.

Time to distract myself from my thoughts as best I can. And I know just how to do it, too.

Glancing around the semicircle of tributes, I find the guy I'm searching for and point at him. "Bolt!"

Said boy from 3 jumps, almost scared, until he realises who I am and smiles. "Volt!"

We step towards each other and bump fists. It's the most normal thing I've done since getting reaped, and I have to say, the normalcy is nice.

"Really?" Bolt's district partner steps up to his side, rolling her eyes. "Have you guys even talked before?"

Bolt shakes his head. "Nope."

"So it's just 'Hey, our names rhyme!', fist bump, automatic bros? Is that how guys work?"

"Absolutely."

"Classy."

"Oh, most definitely." Bolt smiles and turns back to me, giving a small bow. "You, my good sir, have the finest of names."

I laugh. "So do you. It's my brother's name, actually."

"Really? Cool. Have to ask, though, what's a guy named Volt doing in Seven?"

"Used to live in Five."

"Ah, makes sense. You guys are always stealing our names."

"Oh, are we now," says a new voice over our chuckles.

I glance over to find Sammy nearby, arms crossed and gaze narrowed at Bolt and his district partner. "Sammy!" I laugh and clap her on the back. "How've you been?"

"Well enough. And don't even think about it," she continues as I try to affectionately ruffle her hair. "Save it for your district partner."

"Ah, all right. Speaking of, where is Caragh?"

"Um, right . . . right here."

I nearly jump at the voice from behind me. Caragh blushes as I turn back to see her.

"Holy crap, when did you get here?"

"I-I've been here this whole time."

"What?"

"I rode the elevator down with you."

"Really? Huh, didn't notice." She sighs, and does so again when I sling my arm around her and ruffle her hair. "Well, everyone, this is my district partner, Caragh."

Bolt smiles. "Nice to meet you. I'm Bolt, and this is Adia."

"Sam," Sammy says, extending her hand to Caragh. "My district partner is otherwise engaged."

"Oh yeah." My eyes narrow. "Where _is _the little traitor?"

"Getting harassed by the Two girl, from the looks of it."

Sam jerks her head in the direction of Aemilius Lewellyn, who is indeed being followed around by Andromeda. It looks like they're both growing increasingly frustrated with each other; she keeps trying to tell him something, and he keeps shutting her down.

He's no idiot, though—I can see how careful he is when choosing where to walk, always sticking close to the Peacekeepers. With them nearby to stop any fights before they start, he doesn't have to worry about anyone with a bone to pick. Coward.

"So, what's his deal?" I ask Sammy, though my gaze is still focused on Aemilius. "He really sold the rebels out?"

She laughs. "You think he'd tell me? Spent the entire night sulking in his room, didn't open the door no matter how many times I knocked."

"Sounds pretty guilty to me, then."

That's Tully from 8, coming over with her district partner. Actually, now that I look around, many tributes are wandering closer to our group. In addition to myself, Caragh, Adia, Bolt, and Sammy, plus Tully and Magnus, I spot the pair from 4, and the girls from 6 and 10. We're accumulating quite the following.

Tully seems to notice, because she strides over to me and gets straight to the point. "Volt, yeah? We met last night. You said you were a part of the rebellion then."

"As I recall, so did you."

"Then that settles it. Like you said, we're all on the rebels' side, and I don't see why we should have to turn against each other just because the damn Capitol says so. I mean, no one here would ever kill each other, right?"

She receives a multitude of nods in response.

"So, what exactly are you saying?" I ask as she turns back to me. "We form a sort of squad? Like the rebels had during the war?"

"Exactly. Band together, weather whatever the Capitol throws at us, and work to save ourselves while our families back home do the same. No one should have to deal with the Peacekeepers alone."

"I like the way you think."

"Good. So," she extends her hand, "shall we be allies? Just like our districts were in the war?"

I grin and clasp her hand in mine. "Allies. All of us—anyone who wants to help free the districts from the Capitol. We'll take these bastards down."

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><p><em><strong>Yes, the Gamemakers were waiting outside the door until someone asked about them so they could make their grand entrance. Drama queens.<strong>_

_**I realise there wasn't much in the way of training for this chapter, sorry 'bout that. As these are new activities for the tributes, it takes some time for them to get used to, and you'll find many of them don't like following the rules, so they'd much rather sit around and chat than actually train. For now, at least.**_


	17. Tesla: Monster

_**Warnings for mentioned abuse and implied . . . you know what, I don't even know what I was implying. Basically, warnings because it's Vesper and his life sucks, as I'm sure you all remember from his first chapter.**_

_**Also, I wrote this chapter to "Haunting, Ethereal Cello Music", "Forsaken", and "Desolation", all by Adam Hurst. You can find them on Youtube, if you're so inclined.**_

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><p><strong>Tesla Sinclair, 17, District 1<strong>

I did little during training. There seemed to be an unspoken agreement amongst all tributes: if you participate in a station un-sarcastically, you're playing along with the Capitol, and that's disgusting. So I refrained. Yes, I could definitely use some new skills, but I'm also less than eager to paint a target on my back for that enormous alliance that just formed. I could see the way they glared at Riley from 10, Aemilius from 5, Andromeda from 2. What I most definitely don't need to ensure my survival is enemies.

Allies, however, are another story. My parents fought in the rebellion, and I was involved enough in the war to see that the districts banding together is why we held out for so long against the Capitol. The same is true in all aspects of life: numbers is one of the best things to have on your side in a fight.

Still, there is a reason the districts didn't win against the Capitol. With so many allies, it's impossible to watch them all, to make sure none will shove a knife in your back.

_So that's a no to the big guys, then, _I think, relaxing back on my bed and crossing names off my list. Besides, even if they weren't such a large alliance, it'd be foolish to team up with them. They're self-proclaimed rebels—the Capitol won't like that. And the Capitol seems to play a large part in whether we survive these Hunger Games or not.

_Who am I left with, then? _I wonder, laying on my bed and staring intently at my list. Andromeda Eriae of 2 is too hostile, and from what I've observed, definitely wouldn't hesitate to betray me. As for Samantha Hoffman from 5, I don't think she's really onboard with the alliance of rebels and would probably be open to other options, but she's too intelligent. Besides, she seems to have a grudge against 3, my original district. That would cause too many complications.

The same can be said of her district partner: too perceptive, and backstabbing to boot. Though I sense an emotional fragility about Aemilius Lewellyn that could perhaps be exploited, he's far too intelligent to be unknowingly manipulated.

Soren Tains, on the other hand, is too stupid, and definitely would not listen to anything I say. The boy from 9, Stanley Bevalli, seems much the same. Another two crossed off my list.

My eyes linger on the names Katerina Mossiac and Tierza Mae. Both fourteen, both alone, and both with disadvantages, either mentally or physically. My heart yearns to team up with them, to team up with all the younger kids so I might help them survive. I'm a big sister—it's my instinct.

But . . . But that's the point. I'm a big sister. I have a family: an older brother, a twin, and a younger sister. By helping the other tributes here, I'd be hurting them, and how is that fair? They need me back with them, not off taking care of some random kids I barely know.

It's selective kindness, I understand, and I hate it. But I can't save everyone. I'd hoped I would never have to make this decision, but if it's between a bunch of strange teenagers and my family, my family wins. Every time. I would do anything for them, no matter . . . no matter what the cost.

Of course, the question of whether or not I _could _do anything for them is another matter entirely.

"_First things first. Don't go into this thinking it's a bluff."_

"_I won't. I know how harsh the Capitol can be."_

"_So you know what you have to do to get back home then?"_

"_. . . Yes."_

"_You hesitated. I don't like it."_

"_Wirea, I . . . I don't think I can kill."_

"_Bullshit. If you stopped me from volunteering for you, then you damn well better have done it because you know you're coming home. Put on your ice queen mask and forget about humanity."_

"_It's not that I won't. I know I have to, I just . . . I can't. Not after . . . not after M-Mom and Dad."_

"_. . . Fine. Then find someone else who will instead."_

My twin sister's last words to me are all that's been on my mind as of late. Wirea was so angry she was in tears during my goodbye; she's always been the stronger one, the one who protects me, and now she's powerless.

But I've always been the smarter one. And I think, in the end, that will get me further in the Hunger Games than strength. Even if I can't kill anyone myself.

Wirea's right—I just need someone else to do it for me.

Which leaves me with the two options I've been contemplating since the reapings recap. On the one hand, there's Riley Byron, the boy from 10. At first, I'd immediately written him off as a no: he's big, wild, and could snap me like a twig. But after observing him today . . . I don't know. Is there a more tender heart beneath the hatred, the soul of a boy who just wants to be loved after years of being feared?

Perhaps. However, it's also highly likely that his outward anger would kill me before I wormed my way into the more sensitive bits.

What I need is someone who's the opposite. Tender and weak on the outside so I might first bond with them, but with hatred bubbling beneath the surface, just waiting for someone to draw it out. In a case like that, I would get a killer on my side who would never think of betraying me.

So, it's option two, then. I'd figured as much from the start—I'd just hoped a better path might reveal itself. This one will likely take me the farthest, but it's full of dangerous pitfalls that lead to me actually giving a damn about someone.

_Ignore that. Think about your family. You would do anything for them, no matter what the cost._

I crumple up my list, fall back on my bed, and whisper softly, "I'm sorry, Vesper."

Time to set this alliance in motion, then.

Half an hour later, I'm standing outside the other bedroom on our floor, one hand holding a tray with two cups of coffee, the other poised to knock on the door, though I freeze when I hear the music. Quiet, but beautifully melodious and haunting. Is that a cello?

Curious, I crack open the door and peer inside. The room is nearly identical to mine: same enormous bed, same cushy carpet, same flat screen TV, and same intricate sound system in the corner. Whereas I dismissed the CD player as a waste of time to learn to use, Vesper has clearly gone through the trouble of mastering the controls. The device is on, an empty CD case on top of it, music flowing smoothly from the speakers.

And there, on a chair in the middle of the room, sits my district partner. He's only half facing me, but I can see his eyes are closed, brow furrowed in deep concentration. His arms are up, the fingers of one hand flicking madly about, the other swaying back and forth. It's a few seconds before it hits me: he's playing. Air-cello-ing? Is that a thing?

There's something graceful, almost ethereal about the movements, and I can't help but get lost in them. Vesper looks calmer than I've ever seen him, practically regal with his fine, aristocratic features. It's easy to picture him sitting on a small stage in one of our district's fancy restaurants, playing away for the upper class of 1. He might even have gotten into the Capitol with those skills and his looks. Despite their many enhancements, according to our escort, Capitolites go wild for naturally handsome people. He could very well have been famous.

_Stop it, Tesla. _I shake my head, trying to clear it of these ridiculous thoughts. Sure, he could have been a professional musician; I could have been one of the top inventors in 3. The war screwed everyone over, and now twenty-three of us have had our futures snatched away so we can die for the Capitol's justice.

It's not a question of who I want dead. It's a question of who I _don't _want dead. And the answer will always be my siblings.

In which case, I have to be around to help them.

My resolve strengthens just as the song wraps up. I swallow hard, steel myself, and, over the fading sounds of the cello, say, "That was beautiful."

Vesper nearly falls out of his chair in response. Idiot that I am, I'd forgotten how jumpy he is.

"I-I wasn't doing anything," he stammers, jerking away from the chair and blocking the stereo with his back, one hand blindly scrambling for the off switch.

_Notes on Vesper, entry one: very nervous when being caught practicing cello movements. Perhaps it has happened before, at home, with less favourable reactions to mine? Exploit this, and make friends easier. He'll be putty in your hands soon enough._

I'm so going to hell.

But not before having a long life with my siblings.

"You don't have to worry," I say, entering his room with a kind smile. "It was wonderful to listen to, really. You used to play, didn't you? I bet you were amazing."

The scared, confused look he gives me nearly breaks my heart.

_No, do _not_ start caring. Notes on Vesper, entry two: not used to praise. Ease into it slowly, but very few compliments should be needed in order to win him over._

"Oh, right, but I came here for something else," I say, feigning amiable forgetfulness. I've watched him enough to know people intimidate him, so I have to come off as friendly and approachable. "I brought coffee, if you'd like. It's probably a bit cold now, I got so distracted with the music, but would you still like some?"

I offer him one of the mugs, knowing if I leave the decision entirely up to him, he won't know what to do; it's obvious he hasn't decided much for himself in a long time.

He flinches when I step towards him, but allows me to come near enough to place the mug in his hands. The expression on his face is still so lost, as if he's never been offered anything before and has no idea what to do with the gift. I take a sip of my own coffee, giving him a smile that encourages him to do the same. He does so tentatively, in a way that suggests he's never tried coffee before. That's what I'm counting on.

I don't miss the brief flash of "ugh" across his face when he takes his first sip. Vesper realises this and glances up, as though scared I might punish him for it or something, but all I do is giggle.

"It's all right. I had to acquire a taste too."

I take another sip and he mimics me, keeping the disgust in his expression to a minimum this time. Truthfully, I can't imagine how horrid his tastes. First off, there's the bitterness of one's typical first coffee, but he also has to deal with the awfulness of alcohol mixed in.

No, I'm not drugging him. I'm just . . . loosening his tongue. If there is a darkness within him, he won't let it show willingly, not after years and years of keeping it down. I need a little help bringing it out.

I'm so, so going to hell.

"Shall we?" I ask, maintaining my friendly smile and gesturing to his bed.

I just meant to sit down, honestly, that's all I was implying. From the way Vesper's eyes widen, however, and the fact that he nearly drops his mug in shock and fear, lead me to believe he thought I was referring to something else.

_Notes on Vesper, entry three: terrible anxiety when misunderstanding my intent for the bed. Quite the drastic reaction, and the odd conclusion to jump to. Perhaps this is due to . . ._

. . . Oh.

Perhaps I don't actually want to think about it.

"Or, here," I say hurriedly, trying to fix my mistake. "You could sit on the bed, and I could use this chair, so we can face each other when we talk? Is that better?"

It takes him a moment to realise talking is all I had in mind, but when he does, he relaxes visibly.

"Um, y-yes. Sure."

I pull up the chair he was practicing in, and, after a moment of hesitation, he seats himself on the bed across from me. We enjoy the silence for a bit, sipping from our mugs, until I decide it's time to move forward.

"So, what did you think of the training today?"

"Oh, um, it was . . . nice."

"Do anything interest?"

"I-I checked out the, um, the stars booth." He winces, then adds, "It's useful, really. Helps with, um, navigation at night."

He keeps justifying his actions to me, which means he still sees me as an authority figure, someone who might harm him if he screws up. That has to change; I need him to want my love, not just my approval.

Luckily, I know a thing or two about stars. "Oh, you're interested in astronomy too? It's one of my favourite sciences."

"R-Really?"

"Of course! I think it's incredible that we rely so heavily on our sun, and yet, when we look into the night sky, we're seeing hundreds of bodies that are even bigger and brighter. And don't even get me started on other planets. You think about all the worlds we know of, and yet, somehow, ours was the only one where everything happened just right to produce life. If we had been just a bit further from the sun, if we hadn't gained oxygen or water . . . so many ifs, and yet, here we are."

Vesper nods eagerly, eyes lit by a glint of enthusiasm I've never seen until now. Clearly this is another one of his passions.

"But the universe is constantly expanding," he says, the stutter noticeably gone from his voice. "And it's huge. There could be any number of others worlds with life on them. We just haven't found them yet."

"You're absolutely right. I hope we live to find these other planets one day."

He smiles at me then, actually genuinely smiles, the first time I've seen him do so since we met, and that's when I know I've got him.

"Look, Vesper." I bite my lip, pretending to be awkward and hesitant. "I don't want these Hunger Games to happen as much as the next person, but I couldn't help noticing that giant alliance forming today. Did you see them?"

The smile disappears. He looks away, takes another sip from his mug, and nods.

"Well, I was just thinking, maybe allying up with people wouldn't be so bad. But, the thing is, I don't want to team up with random strangers, you know? I don't just want allies, I want . . . well, I want friends. A friend." I take his free hand in mine and look him in the eye. "Vesper, do you want to work together through all this? As friends?"

I put a light emphasis on the last word, and, just like that, he's mine. The sheer shock and awe he expresses at the term is more than enough to let me know he's never had a friend in his life.

Which makes this so easy for me now. We're only holding hands, but I can practically see his pulse skyrocket. His cheeks are red, his eyes wide and glossy—no, he's not going to cry, is he? Please no. I'm trying to remain indifferent here.

"Y-Y-Yes! I-I mean, if you want to."

"Of _course_ I want to," I gush.

His expression brightens. "Then yes, yes, definitely. Th-Thank you."

"No, thank _you_."

Now for the trickier part. I have to be careful where I step with this one—can't set him off too early, can't make him suspicious of what I'm doing. All I need is information on what he fears and what he hates so I can act when the time comes.

In preparation, I finish my coffee with a big gulp, and Vesper hurries to follow my lead. Good—he doesn't seem like the kind of guy who can hold his liquor, and I need him to be just a bit drunk for this to work.

_This is for you, Wirea. And Archie and Electra. I love you guys, and I'm going to make it back to you._

"So, Vesper," I say, placing my mug on the nightstand nearby and joining him on the bed. This time, he doesn't flinch, not even when I rest my head against his shoulder. It feels wrong, worse than all the other lies, but I have to give this everything I've got. "Since we're friends, we should probably get to know each other, right?"

He tenses at that. "Sh-Should we?"

"I think so. That's what all friends do. It's certainly what I do with my other friends."

There we go—by mentioning I've had friends before, I've become the automatic expert in this subject. He'll follow my lead now, if only because he has no idea how to navigate this territory himself.

"O-Okay. What would you like me to say?"

Not even asking me the personal questions, likely for fear of being rude. Someone's already got him well-trained.

"Could you tell me why you volunteered for this? I've been wondering for a while now."

He inhales sharply, and for a moment, I'm worried I've gone too far too soon. Our escort asked him that same question on the train ride over here, but he barely got anything out of Vesper besides vague murmurs of "family reasons". It's clearly a touchy subject for him, so I figured it would for sure hold the sort of information I seek. Have I been too eager though?

But then Vesper sighs and says, "For my family. They . . . need the money."

"And they thought the best way to get money was by sending their son to his possible death? That's horrible." I try to keep real emotion out of my voice, but my heart twists nonetheless. If he's telling the truth—and I can't see why he wouldn't be—then that's just disgusting.

"It's okay." His words are starting to slur a bit; the alcohol's taking hold. "I'm not going to die. I-I can't." He gives a hollow laugh. "My father ordered me not to."

I sit up and look at him. Throughout our entire time in the Capitol, the subject Vesper has never once said a word on, no matter how much our escort pestered him, was his father. He'd mention his siblings, and even his mother in passing, but not one word was ever spoken of the great Argenion Prospero.

Now I'm starting to guess why.

"Vesper," I say slowly, not wanting to go too fast, but also not wanting to lose this golden opportunity. "The day of the reapings, you had a black eye. Was it . . . was it your father who did that to you?"

"Oh, no. No, no, no, no." I can't help but feel a bit of relief, until Vesper lifts up his shirt and continues, "This, this was him. He tries to avoid the face. People see that."

Oh, God.

His chest and stomach are a mess of green, black and blue. Patches of bruising overlap each other until there's barely an inch of normal skin left to be seen. And he's been walking around like everything is fine for how long?

"Vesper . . ."

_No, Tesla, focus. You can't afford to get emotional. Think of your siblings. _

I clear my throat and try again. "Then who gave you the black eye?"

"Oh, that was . . . um, Cartier? And the guys at work? Yeah, I think so—hard to, to keep track of them all."

"Them all?"

"All the people who hate m-me." His hiccup on the last word turns into a sob. "All the people who think I . . . who think I'm a p-p-piece of sh-shit."

"I don't think you're a piece of shit."

The words are out of my mouth before I can think, but it turns out it was the right thing to say. Vesper stares at me, eyes watering, as though he can't believe his ears.

"Th-Thank you," he whispers, then the sobs take over and he's weeping into my shirt, his arms wrapped around me like a drowning man clinging to a life preserver. "Thank you, thank you, _thank you._"

"Don't worry about it," I say, patting him on the back. He whimpers each time I do, as though he's never been touched so gently in his life. "But Vesper?"

He raises his tear-streaked face to mine, and my heart catches in my throat. More than anything, I want to hold him in my arms and comfort him for the rest of the night.

But I can't. I have my siblings to think of.

So I lock my heart inside an icy case and say, "I just have to ask. Do you think about hurting people? The people who hate you? Like your father? Have you ever thought about . . . killing him?"

Seconds pass, and I fear he's not drunk enough to answer. His bottom lip trembles and he dissolves back into sobs.

But then, through the increasing hysteria, I hear him moan, "A-All the t-time."

I've done it, then. I've found my killer.

I close my eyes and rest my head on top of Vesper's, listening to his muffled sobs.

_Wherever you are, I'm so sorry, Mom. Dad. _

_I'm going to turn this boy into a monster._

* * *

><p><strong><em>For God's sake, Vesper, you live in the future and still use CDs? Get with the times.<em>**

**_Thank you very much for reading, everyone!_**


	18. Riley: Only Honest

_**Sorry for the wait on this one. I've been having some issues with one of my projects, and I've caught a bit of a cold, so it's been a bit tough to write. Plus this guy is . . . interesting. You all know of him, you're all probably already a bit terrified of him, now enjoy the introduction of Riley Byron.**_

* * *

><p><strong>Riley Byron, 17, District 10<strong>

"So, you know, um, historically—"

_THWACK._

"—I mean, not to discourage you or anything—"

_THWACK._

"—but people usually fought with, you know, a sword and a shield—"

_THWACK._

"—in fact, duel-wielding was often seen as dangerous and, um, u-useless . . ."

I hold off on my next attack on the dummy and turn to glare at the trainer. His nervous laughter quickly becomes a gulp of fear.

Without taking my eyes off him, I slide both my swords over the shoulders of a dummy. A quick flick of my wrists is all it takes to send the blades slicing through the thin material of the neck.

The head falls to the floor and slowly rolls until it knocks up against the trainer's shoes. He jumps, staring down at the thing as though it had actually been alive at some point.

"You say it's useless," I growl, earning a flinch from the trainer. Pathetic wimp. "But your training dummies say otherwise."

The man glances around at all of his station's mannequins, which have indeed been decimated by my swords. Only two are still attached to the posts that keep them standing; the rest litter the floor, spilling their innards out onto the linoleum. Too bad the sight of cotton and fluff isn't nearly as invigorating as that of blood and guts.

I toss the swords on the floor before the trainer, causing him to yelp and stumble back. My stylist behaves the same way; seriously, are none of these fucking Capitolites born with a spine?

"Get some new dummies," I bark, already striding away from the swords station. "I'll be back when you do."

Judging by the way the trainer was practically pissing himself, he'll take his sweet-ass time replacing the dummies just so he doesn't have to see me again. No matter—there are plenty of other stations to occupy my time.

It almost makes me laugh to watch the other tributes as my glare travels around the gym. Not just because they suck balls at everything they try, but because of how quickly their resolve to defy the Capitol disappeared. Even the bitches from 3 and 8, and that loudmouthed bastard from 7 are all over at the snares station. They can act as rebellious as they want towards the trainer, it does nothing to hide the desperation in their eyes. Clearly none of them know how to live off the land, especially in terms of food, and it scares them. So much for all that talk about the rebels coming to save their asses.

I'm half-tempted to join them at the snare station, if only to mock this lack of resolve and exploit this fear of starvation, but I have to pick my battles. If I attack them while they're a team, they'll respond as a team. And, as confident as I am in my abilities, if their giant alliance came at me all at once, the best I could do is take a few down with me before I died.

It's the numbers that give them their strength, and they're only growing; the crazy girl from 11 has dragged her district partner over, and now they both seem to be a part of the team. Yet the Capitol has done nothing to stop this blatant act of rebellion—after all, any kind of alliance flies in the face of everything the Hunger Games stands for. I know for a fact that Gamemakers are aware of this bond between the rebels—their eyes linger on tributes like Volt, Adia and Tully far more often than they do the rest of us—but they don't even order the Peacekeepers to keep those tributes apart.

It's more than ignoring the problem—they're _permitting _this alliance to form.

Could it be they've come to the same conclusion I've arrived at? I don't know if that's possible for these brainless Capitolites, but it would lend reason to their actions.

If the Capitol destroys this alliance, it only reinforces the idea that Capitolites are the villains. The rebels will continue to unite so long as they have a common enemy to battle together.

But if the rebels wound up destroying their _own _alliance . . . well, that would be a very different story indeed.

The Capitol will need help making that happen, though. Volt Tron may be a fucking dumbass, but there was some truth to his words yesterday. Take a bunch of normal, sane teenagers and put them in a fight to the death, not much is going to happen. The trick is to apply pressure: deprive them of food and sleep, fray their nerves, get them snapping at each other. You'll get bloodshed eventually.

_Eventually _being the key word here. The Capitol may like to wait, but I am not a patient man. If I wait for natural causes to turn those rebel idiots against each other, it'll be months before I can return to 10 and wreak havoc on those who wronged me.

Looks like I'll have to take matters into my own hands, then.

I gaze about the room, searching for a proper target. That's the thing about big groups: there's always a weak link. Always someone you can exploit. Kairon told us yesterday that we weren't allowed to physically assault each other, but I know for a fact words can be just as damaging. And those I can use just as well as my fists.

The first of the rebels that jumps out at me is the girl from 7, Caragh Ronisch. I've seen how ignored she is by her allies, how often she is forgotten even when she's in the immediate area. The way she suffers silently with it implies she's endured that all her life, which has likely led to a bit of a messed up psyche.

Or it's led to a skin thickened by years of being disregarded, which would make her a tougher nut to crack. A challenge I'd gladly take any other day, but goddamn it, I want to break someone _now._ It's been ages since I've had the chance to cause pain.

Sadist. Murderer. Psycho. All names I've been blessed with by the oh-so-great psychiatrists of District 10. But here's a secret the world doesn't want anyone to know: _everyone _bears these titles. Humans just try to hide it because they like to believe they're above us honest folk who show our true nature.

Nothing delights me more than breaking this holier-than-thou façade and reducing someone to an animal. Every time I provoked someone to hit me in the asylum, it was a victory. The crushing defeat in their eyes when they'd come to their senses and seen what they'd done, the look of horror when they'd realised they were no better than a "savage" like myself—nothing pleased me more.

Human beings are assholes. Sadistic assholes. I'm just trying to help them be honest.

_Starting with . . . you._

I watch the boy from 4 finally manage to excuse himself from his talkative district partner and make his own way over to the camouflage station, which is currently empty save the bored-looking trainer.

Couldn't have asked for a better situation.

I stride over to the camouflage station, knowing my escort of Peacekeepers is following close behind. They won't interrupt, though. After all, I'm only going to talk to the boy.

He has no idea what's coming.

Arc Malvina, as I recall his name was, is listening intently to the trainer's instructions on blending colours, and barely notices as I come to a stop at the station. The woman teaching, however, looks up after I grab her big can of green paint and empty it on the mat before her.

"You're out of green," I bark, tossing the can at her feet. "Better get more."

She barely hesitates—just as spineless as the guy at the swords station. Weak-ass Capitolites.

Arc jumps to his feet when he realises I'm behind him, eyes wide and terrified as he stares up at me.

"Um, you know what, on second thought I've really got a craving to tie some knots—"

"_Sit_. I want to talk to you."

Arc gulps and slowly slides back to the ground. Honestly, I wasn't expecting it to be that easy; he's even more gutless than I thought.

Works in my favour, at any rate.

"You know we're not allowed to hurt each other," Arc stammers rapidly, raising his hands protectively just in case. "So you can't—"

"I'm not here to hurt you," I growl, kneeling next to him. "Not _yet_, at any rate."

He swallows hard at that. Good—fear is an excellent motivator for losing your humanity.

"Besides, not sure it's me you should be worried about. Sure your allies aren't the more immediate problem?"

"W-What?"

I'm not sure if he's more confused at my words, or the fact that I've said so many of them at once. Too often people assume bulk and brawn come at the expense of brains.

As those who have gotten on my bad side know, such assumptions can be deadly.

"Your _allies_, idiot. What are you doing with the rebels? You clearly don't belong."

I've seen it in his face every time one of his team members has some rebellious outburst, especially when it has to do with Aemilius Lewellyn. Poor little Arc flinches every time he hears the words "traitor" and "Capitol informant". How interesting.

"L-Look," Arc stammers. "I have no idea what you're talking about, really, I—"

"Then what did you do to help the rebels in the war?"

"I . . . n-nothing. I mean, I'm fourteen, w-what could I have done?"

Plenty—I know if I was fourteen, I would have been raring to fight in a war. Only problem was the asylum never let me outside, and never gave me any idea of what was going on in the world either. I was barely aware there even was a war until Peacekeeeprs came in and took over the asylum.

All these kids who fought I've only ever overheard bitching about the tragedies they've suffered through. Whereas I _wanted _to fight, but was the only one denied the chance.

Thank you, life. Fuck you too.

Still, it's plausible Arc Malvina never had to partake in the war. He's got the look of a kid who was once a rich bastard and never had to be conscripted.

"What did you parents do, then?"

I've hit the jackpot. Arc's face pales, and he looks immediately at his feet. His fingers are fidgeting nervously with the hem of his shirt.

"Uh, you know. Stuff."

"Stuff for the rebels, or for the Capitol?"

I think he might pass out. Oh, how I've missed this.

"Because you know what I think, Arc?" He flinches as I lean forward, but can't seem to find the strength to run. "I think your parents were Capitol informers, just like dear Aemilius Lewellyn from Five. And you know what's funny? When I watched the reapings recap, I didn't see anyone in the crowd too broken up about you getting reaped. Where did your parents go? The Capitol doesn't kill their supporters, they have so few as it is. And why are you so scared of your allies? Why don't you want them to find out who you really are?"

Let it never be said I don't do my research. I've kept an eye on these guys ever since their alliance formed yesterday. At lunch, they were all chatting about the rebellious things they'd done to get reaped, but Arc would ever-so-conveniently change the subject before he had to share.

"I think your parents were killed by the rebels. From what I've overheard, Four was a pretty nasty place to be if you supported the Capitol. Mommy and Daddy Malvina did, so the others took matters into their own hands. Am I right?"

I don't need an answer: Arc is shaking from head to foot. Oh, how I've missed the look of abject terror in people's eyes.

"You know, your allies would do the same to you in a heartbeat. Moment they found out about you? You're dead, boy, unless you beat them to the punch."

"I-I don't . . . I . . ."

_There _it is. Behind the curtain of fear, I can spot a tiny spark of doubt in his eyes. All I have to do is make it catch.

"And you know what else? I—"

"Hey, Arc, it's lunchtime. You coming or what?"

I grimace. _Damn it. Volt Tron._

It is indeed—him and all his cronies are striding up to the station now. Though he's addressing Arc, his eyes are fixed firmly on me, narrowed in a glare.

Goddamnit, why is he here? I was positive none of these idiots would miss Arc and bother to notice what was going on. They're all way too self-absorbed for that, how could they possibly . . .

My focus shifts from Volt to the first aid station behind him and its lone occupant, who's trying inconspicuously to watch what's going on.

Of course. _Her_.

My dear district partner really needs to learn to stay out of things that don't concern her.

"There aren't any problems here, are there?" Volt asks, looking from me to his ally. "Arc?"

"There's nothing wrong," I snap, getting to my feet and staring him down. "I was just leaving."

Volt pisses me off, him and all his rebel friends, but as much as I want to send a fist straight into their faces, I have to bide my time. Before they turn on me, I want them turning on each other.

Our two-second glare down is interrupted by the sounding of a bell and the Peacekeepers around the gym shouting, "Lunchtime! Leave the stations and head to the cafeteria!"

The men escorting me are already putting their hands on my shoulder, but I jerk away and storm off towards the gym's exit. I can walk by myself, thank you very much.

But not before I have a little _chat_ first.

"You know what's funny?" I growl, striding up to my district partner's side just as she leaves the gym. Reese tenses and quickens her pace, but the only place for her to go is down the hall to the cafeteria, where all us tributes are being sent; she can't escape me. "I distinctly remember you saying on the train that you wanted nothing to do with me. Is that right?"

"Of course," she mutters through gritted teeth. "So go away."

"It's funny, because I don't think interrupting my plans is 'having nothing to do with me'."

"All I did was tell Volt to keep an eye on his allies. I didn't mean Arc specifically."

"Yes you did."

"Fine." She stops and turns to glare at me. "I don't want to associate myself with you because I think you're a monster. You're _sick, _Riley. But that doesn't mean I'm not going to stop you from tormenting kids."

"I'd like to see you try."

"You already did."

My eyes narrow. "Well, you won't be able to keep it for much longer, huh? Not if you're dead."

That shuts her up for a second, and it almost makes me smile. Those wide eyes, the breath catching in her throat—she can pretend all she want that she's a hardened toughie who expects the worst from the world, she still doesn't think the Capitol will really go through with this. No one here does.

That's where I have the advantage.

I smirk humourlessly, letting my voice drop as I lean in close. "Did I ever tell you I'm going to kill you first?"

She jerks away and storms off. But not before I catch it. The sweet, sweet sight of _fear_ in her eyes.

Oh, I cannot wait to play this game.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Also, the amazing FoalyWinsForever has made a playlist for Vesper and Tesla! It's on 8tracks, under the username Cephalopodesque, and the title is Tesper. Go check it out!<strong>_


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